


This is the Road to Ruin

by bricoleur10



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Basically a re-write of the whole series so Mickey and Ian can be in lurve, Bipolar Disorder, Canon Divergent after mid-3x05, Canon Typical Amounts of Literally Everything, Closeted Character, Complete, Domestic!Gallavich (later chapters), Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, Family Relationship Dynamics, Gallagher Mayhem, Happy Ending, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, I don’t even know how it got this long, I guess just a really drawn out fix-it AU, Lip is a good brother, M/M, Mickey Learns How to Use his Words, Or Sammi, Praise Kink, Protective!Mickey, Sammi just isn't there, Sibling Love, So is Iggy, There's still a lot of drama, Underage Drinking, Violence, brief Ian/OMC, follows some of the same general plot lines, hints/references to domestic abuse, implied dub/con (not between Mickey and Ian), no 3x666, references to childhood abuse, sibling fighting, so much swearing, supportive families
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-01-18 13:01:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 158,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12388599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bricoleur10/pseuds/bricoleur10
Summary: The day Ned asks Ian to rob his house the redhead almost says yes – why shouldn’t he, after all? Ned seems nonchalant enough about the whole thing, he’ll get some free expensive shit out of the deal, and if he plays his cards right maybe he can even convince Mickey to be his accomplice – but something stops him from going through with it.The third-eldest Gallagher has never been much of a believer in fate or divine intervention or destiny or anything like that – can’t be, with the life he’s led – but he just might have become one, had he only known how that one seemingly insignificant decision had changed the course of his entire life.He gets it now; why people write songs about this, why they become addicts when they lose it. He gets how it can mess with your whole life, why you’d go to jail to keep someone else safe, why you’d kill to see them happy. He understands it all; every cheesy line in every crappy movie, and all the bad decisions he’s seen his brothers and sister, his mother, make. He gets why people do all of those things. Now that he knows what it feels like, knows for sure, he finally understands.Love ruins you.





	1. Your Call, Gallagher

**Author's Note:**

> It happened like this: a few months ago, within the span of a couple days, a guy I work with, my step-mom, and literally some random person I’d just met all took it upon themselves to suggest I check out this show called _Shameless_. Now, me? I’m obsessive by nature, so a TV show that’s already seven seasons deep is a fucking commitment, lemme tell you – especially when you factor in the potential for fandom. But, those three random suggestions were all unprompted, and came from such radically different people, that I felt like I kinda had to. And I know I’m jumping in super late, and that so much has happened in this fandom already, but after almost two straight months of binge-watching, and falling madly in love with Gallavich, I couldn’t help myself, and I wrote a thing. A really long thing. 
> 
> Fucking Mickey and Ian, guys. Fucking Mickey and Ian happened and now I’m on this ship so hard, and I’m goin’ down down down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> [ ](https://i.imgur.com/AUeKGW8.jpg)   
> 

~Prologue~

“Hey, y’know the guy you beat the shit out of at that club?” Ian doesn’t wait for a response, because of course Mickey remembers. “He wants me to sneak into his mansion, take all his crap.”

“Really?” Mickey deadpans around his cigarette, raising the gun to take another shot. “Hi-larious.” 

“He can’t get it himself. Divorce.” He drops to the ground with his fake rifle, army-crawling under the maze he and Mickey had set up. “Said I could take whatever I want. He’s loaded.”

Mickey fires several shots, a little too close for comfort, near Ian’s head. “Jesus!” He exclaims, jumping to his feet again. “Use blanks, maybe?” 

Mickey doesn’t respond, and Ian just rolls his eyes. It’s not like the other boy is really going to shoot him or anything. Ian’s fairly confident about that. After another few minutes of running the course, Mickey seems to get agitated. “So?” 

“So?” Ian repeats, out of breath and trying to focus on his footwork. 

“Are you gonna do it? Rob the old bastard?” 

Ian pauses for a second, considers Mickey’s question and the trepidation in his tone that the other boy can’t quite hide. He’d been planning on saying yes – why shouldn’t he, after all? Ned had seemed nonchalant enough about the whole thing, he’d get some free expensive shit out of the deal, and he’s pretty sure it would be easy to convince Mickey to be his accomplice – but now that the moment is here, something stops him. 

Mickey hadn’t gotten out of juvie all that long ago, and if this goes sideways – which, since he’s a Gallagher and bad luck tends to stalk the lot of them, there’s a good chance that it will – Mickey will be the one to take most of the heat. Ian feels a surge of protectiveness for the older boy, and a warmth in his gut as he remembers the way Mickey had looked the other day standing in the street, waiting for him and Ned. 

“Nah,” he hears himself saying. “Too risky.” He elaborates when Mickey gives him a look like he’s fucking crazy. “I like the guy, but I’m not going to jail so he can get his Armani suits and some expensive ass bottle of liquor back, y’know?” 

Mickey nods and then shrugs, like he doesn’t care at all. He brings his gun-wielding hand to his face and runs his thumb along his bottom lip. “Your call, Gallagher.” Ian walks closer to where Mickey is sitting above him, deciding it’s time for a break. “I don’t know what you see in that geriatric Viagroid, anyway.” 

“He buys me stuff. Orders me room service.” Ian shrugs, not at all unaware of how his words are affecting Mickey. Hell, if he’d known that jealousy was the key to getting the older boy to confront his feelings, Ian would have started hooking up with other guys ages ago. 

Mickey shoots his gun twice more, glancing over his shoulder for a second and then back at Ian, like he’s afraid to look away for too long, and Ian bites back a smirk and goes for broke. “He isn’t afraid to kiss me.”

Mickey doesn’t respond to that, but Ian can see the cracks in his armor getting a little bit wider.

**\--I—**

_Your Call, Gallagher_

***

“Yo, if we ain’t robbin’ anybody, whaddya doin’ the rest of the day?” Mickey asks casually, once Ian declares his training session complete and the two of them are making their way out of the abandoned building they’d long ago claimed as their own. 

Ian shrugs, taking a minute to actually think about it. “Mandy and Lip are being fucking weird. Don’t really feel like going home.” 

Mickey hums. “You know if your fuck-face of a brother hurts my sister I’m gonna have to kill him, right?” 

It’s supposed to be a threat, but Ian just grins. “Lip can hold his own.”

Mickey’s torn between picking a fight about that and just letting it go, Ian can tell, and considers it progress on the older boy’s part when he chooses the latter. “It’s fucking weird that our little sister is living with you guys, by the way.” 

“ _Fucking weird_ is pretty par for the course at my house.” Ian laughs, and then suddenly remembers the most recent incident that had taken place there. “Shit, did I tell you that Ned accidentally tried to fuck Lip?” 

“Wait, what?” Mickey stutters around his amusement. “Don’t tell me your brother’s a homo now, too? Man, it ain’t supposed to be contagious.” 

Ian laughs out loud. Mickey’s always been good at making him laugh. “Nah, he was looking for me. Crawled into the wrong bed. Lip almost broke his neck trying to get away from him. Woke us all up screaming about the full chub poking him in the back.”

Ian knows he’s walking a fine line, trying to tell a funny story about the guy Mickey is jealous of, but he likes making Mickey laugh, too, and it’s not like he and Ned had actually fucked that night. But apparently, he’d misjudged his ability to keep it lighthearted, because Mickey stops walking suddenly, forcing Ian to turn around and face him fully. “What?” He asks, when he sees how serious the older boy looks.

“What the fuck was that old ass fag doing at your fucking house?” Mickey asks, voice so low that it almost sounds like a growl. “He fucking stalking you or something?” 

Ian’s heart stutters a little at the look of absolutely murderous rage on his _not_ -boyfriend’s face. A part of him wants to play it out for a minute, see how protective Mickey would really get over him. But as soon as he has that thought, he dismisses it. He’s seen the extreme lengths Mickey will go to in order to protect people, especially his family, and while Ian’s dying to know whether or not Mickey considers him important enough to commit a felony over, he also doesn’t want to lose the other boy in the process. 

“No, no, man,” he says, trying to sound casual and comforting at the same time. “Ned was just crashing on our couch because his wife kicked him out.” 

Mickey huffs his exaggeration when Ian doesn’t expand. “And why the fuck was he doing that?” He demands. “Your family knows you’re fucking some seventy-year-old rich prick and they’re just fucking cool with that?” 

“No.” Ian says, then backpedals. “I mean, yeah. Well, they know _now_. They’re not exactly cool with it.” He scratches at the back of his neck, realizing belatedly that he’d never explained the situation with Ned to Mickey in detail. It’s too fucking complicated to fit into their routine three minutes of post-sex small talk, and it hadn’t exactly come up at work. Mickey had been pretty adamant about _not_ wanting to hear about the other guys Ian had fucked while he’d been in juvie, actually. “Ned is Jimmy’s dad. Which I _didn’t_ know when we started fucking.” 

“Who the fuck’s Jimmy?” Mickey asks, no less on edge at Ian’s shit attempt at an explanation. 

“Fiona’s boyfriend.” Ian answers, a little annoyed that Mickey doesn’t remember this, because he’s pretty sure he’s mentioned the love of sister’s life several times, at least in passing. “He lives with us.” 

“I thought his name was Steve.” 

Then again, maybe Mickey _does_ listen to him when he rambles on about his family. It’s not like it’s _his_ fault everything in the Gallagher’s lives is complicated as fuck. “Yeah, it is.” Ian leans his head back, glancing at the clear blue sky like maybe it could offer him a simpler existence. “Or it was.” He glances back at Mickey. “I mean, it never was, technically, but it’s the name he went by when Fiona first met him. Now we call him Jimmy/Steve to piss him off.” 

Mickey shakes his head at little, openly annoyed and still confused, but at least he doesn’t look like he wants to kill someone anymore. “Your fucking family, man.” 

Ian grins at him, nudging his shoulder a little until he gets Mickey to start walking again. They amble down the sidewalk with no real destination at hand, but Ian doesn’t want to separate yet. He likes spending time with Mickey, and has started to notice, more and more lately, that the other boy doesn’t pretend to hate it as much as he used to. 

“Did Mandy tell you that your half-sister is actually a boy?” Ian asks. “Because that’s a little fucked up.” 

Mickey snorts. “Yeah, she mentioned that.” 

Ian falls quiet again, happy to let the silence spread between them, because it doesn’t feel awkward like it used to. He doesn’t feel the need to talk just to fill the void, isn’t afraid that Mickey will take off suddenly if Ian isn’t doing anything to keep him around. Honestly, Mickey has no qualms about leaving in the middle of a conversation. He does what he wants, no matter what, and while that used to piss Ian off – hurt him, if he’s being honest – he’s grown to appreciate it over the years. He knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that Mickey never does anything he doesn’t want to do, so if stays with Ian – even if it’s just walking aimlessly around the streets of Chicago – it’s because that’s where he wants to be. 

“So, is he a criminal?” Mickey asks a few blocks later, kicking an empty pop can into the street idly. “Or was it, like, witness protection or some shit?”

Ian, caught up in his own musings, doesn’t understand the question at first. “What?” 

“Jimmy/Steve.” Mickey elaborates. “Why the fake name?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Ian picks back up with their conversation, a little surprised that Mickey cares enough to ask. “He was a car thief.” 

“Huh.” Mickey actually looks impressed. “A good one?” 

“Yeah.” Ian says. “He doesn’t do it anymore, but when he did, it was always high-end shit. Beamers and Lexus’s, crap like that. He made good money doin’ it, too, but he stopped when he moved in with us. Chose being with Fiona, I guess.” 

Mickey hums and, much to Ian’s shock, doesn’t make a comment about Jimmy being pussy-whipped. “Must be rough,” he mutters instead, “givin’ up a life like that.” 

“I guess.” Ian agrees halfheartedly. “I dunno. I’ve never talked to him about it or anything, but he seems happier now than he did before.” 

Mickey makes a nondescript noise in the back of his throat and Ian fights back a grin when he looks over and sees the contemplative look on the other boy’s face. He’s not naïve enough to think that Mickey’s considering changing the entire course of his life over some offhand comment Ian had made about true love, but it means something that he hadn’t dismissed the notion entirely. 

Ian wants more for Mickey than the type of lives the other Milkovich’s have. He wants more for Mandy, too, but with Mickey it’s an almost visceral thing, protective in a way that feels _primal_ , and he tries not to spend too much time thinking about that. He already knows that he’s in love with Mickey, and he’s pretty sure the other boy feels something for him, too – maybe not love, but something close enough that he’s sure it terrifies him. 

They’re about five blocks away from The Alibi before Mickey speaks again. “My dad took my brothers on a run outta town.” He shares out of nowhere. “And Mandy’s still playing house with your brother.” Mickey rubs his nose, trying for casual and almost managing to pull it off. 

Ian can’t fully bite back his smile. “Are you suggesting something?” 

“Fuck off is what I’m suggesting,” Mickey retorts automatically when he sees Ian’s smugness. His faux-aggression fades almost as quick as it had come. “My place is empty.” He elaborates, “if you feel like making the most of that. Your call, Gallagher.” 

Ian doesn’t bother trying to hide his grin this time. He even throws an arm around Mickey’s shoulders, saying, “Lead the way,” with a bounce in his step. Mickey pushes his arm away in less than ten seconds flat, but he doesn’t stop Ian from occasionally bumping against him as they make their way back to the blessedly-empty Milkovich house. 

***

Ian had thought they’d start fucking immediately – they usually do whenever they’re alone together, so Mickey can keep up the pretense that sex is all he sticks around for – but the darker-haired boy hesitates once they kick off their shoes and double-check that the house is indeed empty. It’s that moment of clear indecision that gives Ian enough confidence to flop down on the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table. 

“I’m fucking starving, man.” He declares, grabbing the remote and switching on some mindless talk show. “I think I burned, like, three meals worth of calories on that obstacle course. You got any food here?” 

“What the fuck do you think this is, a goddamn bed and breakfast?” Mickey snaps at him, but Ian can read the want and fear in his expression too easily. Like, he’s craving this infusion of domesticity into their relationship almost as much as Ian is, but knows that indulging in it will cross some invisible, self-imposed barrier. 

“I’m weak,” Ian protests, keeping his tone light and petulant, playing it like a joke, like he’s doing it just to annoy Mickey. “I can’t fuck you if I don’t have any energy.” He drops his head onto the back of the couch, reaches an arm out, and makes a childlike grabby motion. “Food…” he whines. 

“Fine,” Mickey snaps, rolling his eyes. “Fuck, you’re a needy bastard.” 

“Huh,” Ian says with mock consideration as Mickey makes his way towards the kitchen. “If we were already having sex right now, that’s what I’d be calling you.” 

Ian looks over his shoulder just in time to see Mickey flip him the bird. He laughs loudly. “Pizza, if you have it.” He calls, looking back at the TV and surfing through the channels, trying to find something worth watching. “You got any movies?” He asks after a few minutes, when he can’t find anything good. “Midafternoon TV sucks.” 

“Look to your right, dumbass.” Mickey half-shouts from the other room, tone exaggeratedly annoyed. 

Ian does, and sees a large case filled with dozens of DVDs. 

He knows better than to call this a date, at least out loud, but as the sound of Mickey sticking something in the oven and setting a timer rings out from the kitchen, Ian can’t help but take a moment and consider that maybe, someday, this could be the norm for them. Not roses and chocolate and reading fucking love poems to each other, but something exactly like this – hanging out like friends and then fucking like animals. Depending on each other, not fucking other people, and just _being_ ; knowing that Mickey will always be there with him. 

He knows he’s probably fooling himself, thinking that his life – and especially a life with Mickey Milkovich – could ever be anything remotely resembling calm or permanent, but it’s a nice fantasy. And today has been good enough so far that he doesn’t think his wandering idealist thoughts will bring about anything cataclysmic. 

***

They bicker back and forth about Seagal and Van Damme as they eat pizza rolls on the couch and steal glances at each other. They both notice the other looking, but Ian doesn’t say anything, keeps his expression carefully neutral, and Mickey keeps doing it, seemingly unafraid of Ian realizing that he maybe, kinda likes this, too. 

They make it halfway through a second movie before the want gets to be too much, and Ian moves his hand to Mickey’s knee. He leans closer to the other boy, until their sides are pressed together completely, and delights at the way Mickey’s breath hitches as Ian’s fingers trail up the inside of his thigh. 

Mickey’s never shy about initiating sex, but something about the warm, lazy, pseudo-domestic atmosphere of the two of them together like this seems to have loosened Mickey’s inhibitions enough that he’s comfortable letting Ian see this needier, almost submissive side of him. 

Ian had already known it was there – Mickey’s not shy about what he likes in bed, either – but it’s usually farther into their activities before it comes out, and not always even then. The shift makes Ian’s breath stutter and his cock hard in record time. 

“Fuck,” Mickey breathes, letting his legs fall open as wide as they’ll go as Ian’s hand finally closes around the bulge in his jeans. 

“Yeah,” Ian says, not sure exactly what he’s agreeing with, but knowing that he does in fact agree, as wholeheartedly as humanly possible. “Want you.” He applies pressure to Mickey’s dick, and delights in it when the other boy gasps lightly. 

“You got me, firecrotch,” he nearly whispers, “whatchya gonna do about it?” 

The smug look on Mickey’s face lights a fire under Ian’s skin, and before either of them even knows what’s happening, Ian’s hands are deftly undoing Mickey’s pants. He uses all his upper body strength to shift Mickey’s weight until the offending item is off of him completely, without the older boy ever moving from his spot on the couch. 

Mickey’s breath hitches at the rough handling, and Ian smirks knowingly when Mickey’s dick twitches tellingly. “You like that?” He asks, throaty and low, definitely not playing around anymore. He leans over until his arm is braced on the other side of the couch, bracketing himself right in front of Mickey. 

He raises an eyebrow when Mickey doesn’t respond right away. “Huh? Asked you a question.”

Mickey’s hips roll a little, probably of their own accord, and he groans at the lack of pressure anywhere near where he desperately wants it. Still, his arms stay slack at his sides. He knows the rules by now, as unspoken as they are; and they both know how much he loves it when Ian gets like this. “ _Fuck_ , yeah.” He admits, and doesn’t sound the least bit ashamed of it. “Ian.” 

And goddamn does hearing Mickey say his name like that do things to him. 

“Good,” he breathes, staying calm despite the whirlwind picking up speed in his gut and groin. “That’s good.” 

One day he’s going to say _good boy_. He’s going to praise Mickey openly and fully, because fuck does the other boy get off on it. Even now, those simple words are affecting him. He grips the couch cushions so tight his knuckles turn white, and he bites back something that might have been a whine or a groan, but Ian can tell just by watching him that it would have definitely come out sounding needy as fuck. 

One day he’s going to get Mickey to do that, too – stop hiding how badly he needs this. 

He uses one hand to grip the side of Mickey’s neck, forcing the other boy’s gaze to meet his. He wants to kiss Mickey so badly then, and he doesn’t try to hide it. Mickey’s eyes go soft, and he starts to lean forward, almost like he forgets for a second, that he doesn’t let them do stuff like that. 

When he remembers he pulls back. Not away from Ian bodily, just so their faces aren’t as close anymore. Ian swallows around his disappointment, and Mickey scrunches his nose. “Ya gonna just sit there and stare at me or are you gonna fucking do something?” He snaps, trying and failing to hide his own cascading emotions. “We don’t got all day, Gallagher.” 

Ian tightens his grip on Mickey’s neck, forcing the older boy to bend backwards slightly. Ian presses a tender kiss against Mickey’s Adam’s apple, and pushes his thumb sharply into the curve of his jaw when he makes a noise like he wants to protest. “Actually, we do.” 

Mickey won’t meet his eyes again, but Ian feels his whole body start to tremble. It makes Ian’s cock pulse even harder, and after that he can’t stop himself. He lets go of Mickey’s face and moves to settle himself between the other boy’s splayed legs. 

Mickey gasps and then groans, as soon as Ian’s mouth wraps around his dick. “Goddamn.” He hisses around the pressure, fingers twitching where they’re still gripping at the couch. “If I knew Van Damme got you all hot and bothered like this I’d’a sprung for a DVD - _fuck, right there_ \- long time ago.” 

Ian would have smiled if not for the dick in his mouth. 

He goes at Mickey like that for a while longer, employing every trick and skill he’s acquired to get the other boy as close to the edge as possible. When he feels Mickey’s balls start to draw up, he pulls back, licking obscenely at the slit of his dick before removing himself from it entirely. 

He expects Mickey to curse at him, but all he sees when he looks up is blatant desperation. “Ian,” Mickey’s voice sounds choked and frantic. 

It’s not a small thing, that Mickey’s letting him see this, and Ian discards his plans to tease the other boy entirely. “What do you want?” He asks softly, loosely fisting Mickey’s cock in his hand – not enough to get him off, but maintaining the warmth to help keep him grounded. “Wanna come in my mouth or with my dick in your ass?” 

It’s an honest question, and he lets Mickey see that in his eyes, that his genuine interest right now is doing whatever Mickey wants. He looks almost distraught for a few moments, though, and Ian realizes that maybe he’d miscalculated. Maybe what Mickey had wanted most was to be _told_ what to do, not asked. 

But now that the question is out there, Ian knows he can’t take it back. That wouldn’t be fair, at best, and at worst Mickey would read it like Ian coddling him, and nothing good ever comes of that. Eventually, Mickey catches his breath and gathers his bearings enough to gasp, “Both.” He looks away almost immediately, leaning his head back until his eyes are on the ceiling, but Ian gets it. 

Ian knows exactly what he wants. 

He doesn’t say anything, just hums and reaches for the lube that they’d, thank fucking god, had the presence of mind to bring out earlier. He slicks up two fingers and goes back to sucking Mickey’s cock with renewed determination. 

Mickey arches into the pressure of Ian’s fingers at his hole. By his own calculation, it’s been less than twenty-four hours since the last time they’d done this, and while in theory that’s actually plenty of time for Mickey to tighten up, Ian swears he still feels loose. 

He slackens his throat until Mickey’s cock hits the back of it at the same time he crooks his fingers up and nudges against the older boy’s sweet spot. Mickey cries out at the stimulation.

Ian pulls off him again, just long enough to whisper, “You can put your hands on my head if you want,” before going back to his task with renewed vigor. 

Mickey doesn’t waste a second as soon as Ian says he can, curling his fingers around Ian’s skull, trying desperately to pull at hair that is, in reality, too short to get a decent grip on. Ian decides that maybe he should give up on the crop-cut for a while, go back to the longer locks he’d been sporting when he and Mickey had first started hooking up. Mickey had always seemed rather appreciative of having something to hold onto in moments like these. 

Sometimes, when he gets like this, Mickey won’t do certain things until Ian tells him that he can. He knows it’s all tied together – the waiting for permission, being told he’s good, not wanting to choose what he wants. Ian knows all of these things are pieces of the same bigger picture, but he doesn’t let himself think about what that picture looks like, what it means, because he knows that as soon as he does he’ll never be able to stop. And Mickey’s not ready for that yet. 

What he is ready for, what he needs, is for Ian to make him come. And once his hands are in Ian’s hair and his hips are rolling in tune with Ian’s mouth and fingers, it doesn’t take long at all for him to get there. 

“Fuck,” he groans, as Ian uses his free hand to fondle his balls while simultaneously applying steady pressure to his prostate and sucking hard at his leaking dick. “Fucking Christ, Ian. _Ian_.” 

And then he’s coming, hot and hard, right down Ian’s throat. 

The redhead swallows everything he’s given with ease, and only pulls back when Mickey starts pawing at his shoulder, trying to shove him away from his oversensitive cock. 

Hearing Mickey shout his name like that does something to him. Mickey in general does so many things to him that it’s hard to keep track most of the time, but this. This is easy. 

“Flip over.” He demands, barely allowing the older boy a moment of reprieve before undoing his pants in a desperate need to get his own dick free. This, after all, is exactly what Mickey had asked him for. 

Mickey’s eyes are still clouded with lust, and if it were possible for him to get hard again this fast, Ian’s sure that he would. 

His movements are stilted and slow, still shaky after his orgasm, but Ian doesn’t allow him time to find his footing. He flips Mickey himself, smirking knowingly when the force of the movement makes the other boy groan loud and long. “Fuck, Gallagher, you trying to kill me?” The snarky words are belittled by the pure need in his tone. 

“Nope,” Ian’s impressed with how steady he manages to keep his own voice, “just fuck you.” He kicks Mickey’s legs open a little wider, and Mickey goes with it, bending his body forward until his arms are crossed on the back of the couch and he’s got his head resting on them. His spine is bowed upwards, pushing his ass out like an offering. 

Someday, he’s going to rim Mickey. Rimming is absolutely, one hundred percent on his list. 

For now, he just slicks his cock with lube and lines up with Mickey’s hole. He almost asks the other boy if he needs more prep – another finger, more stretching – but he remembers the pleading, almost panicked looked from earlier. Sometimes Mickey really doesn’t like making decisions, and while Ian’s always been a little nervous about that, about what taking control entirely will do to Mickey once the high of sex endorphins wears off, he’s feeling bold today. 

He pushes into his partner without any farther ado, and nearly loses all his control when Mickey’s ass tightens around him. The older boy gasps so loud it’s almost a shout, and is clawing at the back of the couch by the time Ian’s fully sheathed inside of him. His movements are desperate, feel almost pained, and Ian really can’t help it when he croaks, “You okay?” Because he has to know. Even if Mickey doesn’t want him to ask, likes it better when Ian just _takes_ , he refuses to hurt. And this is a lot. Getting fucked so fast right after an orgasm, it’s so much. 

“Yeah,” Mickey’s voice is shaky, and not nearly as annoyed as Ian had expected. He sounds gone. So fucking gone. “Fuck, yeah. Please. Shit. C’mon.”

It’s more than enough for Ian, who trusts Mickey to tell him if it is too much, and knows at the same time that nothing he does probably ever will be. Mickey can take a lot. Wants even more than that. It’s so hot Ian can barely breathe around the force of it sometimes. 

“Fuck, Mick,” he’s the one gasping now, because no matter how many times he fucks Mickey, it never stops feeling like the earth is shattering around them. “Fuck, you feel so good. Take it so fucking good. Think I can fuck you until you’re hard again?” He pulls out a little, and then slams back in roughly. 

Mickey cries out, too gone in the sensation to respond at all.

“Yeah, fuck,” he breathes, maybe answering his own question, maybe just needing to verbalize his pleasure. Either way, he can’t stop. “I’m gonna come in you.” He starts a steady, brutal pace; pulling almost all the way out every time, and then thrusting back to the hilt so hard that the couch moves with the force of it. “Gonna shoot my load in your ass and watch it drip out again.” He pants; both of them are slick with sweat, their skin nearly steaming from the heat. “Wish I had something to shove up there, keep it all inside you as long as I want.” 

Mickey huffs at that, not quite a laugh, and Ian can sense his affection for the dirty talk. They don’t discuss the gritty details of their sex life outside of the moments in which they’re actually having sex, but Ian knows Mickey likes it when he gets like this: dominating, possessive, controlling. It mixes up with everything else Ian knows about Mickey and the way he likes to get fucked, the things he wants but can’t ask for. 

After a while, Mickey regains his bearings enough to start pushing back against Ian, meeting him thrust for thrust and tilting his hips almost needily. Ian takes the hint. He aims for Mickey’s prostate – which he’d been avoiding at first, knowing he’d be too sensitive for the direct stimulation – and reaching around them to palm at Mickey’s dick. He’s hard again, under Ian’s hand, and the redhead wonders if he’d lost track of how long they’ve been at it, or if Mickey really is just that much of a slut for him. 

Either way, it makes Ian’s thrusts falter with a sudden need to claim the boy under him. 

“Shit, I’m gonna come,” he grunts, not long after that. 

Mickey whines, the neediest sound Ian’s ever heard him make, as his own hand flies suddenly to where Ian’s is, still around his cock, and wraps his fingers around the ones already there, encouraging him, _pleading_ with him, to grip harder, move faster. Ian complies because he wants Mickey to feel good. He always wants Mickey to feel good, but in moments like this it becomes more important than anything else, even his own pleasure; a need akin to breathing. And listening to the way Mickey sighs in relief, watching as his body gives in to the motion of Ian’s entirely, is like coming up for air after a lifetime under water. 

They both come within the next minute. Ian shouts his release at the ceiling, his whole body extending outwards as he shoots hard in Mickey’s ass. 

Since this is his second in such a short time span, Mickey’s orgasm is less impressive, but his reaction to it still makes Ian’s heart flutter. Making Mickey feel good like this wrecks him, absolutely fucking destroys him in the best way possible. 

Someday he’ll tell Mickey that. 

Someday he’ll do a lot of things. 

Ian can’t wait for someday. 

***

Ian helps Mickey flip back around while they’re both still panting wildly. Somehow, in the mess of heavy limbs and fucked out exhaustion, they wind up with Ian pressed into one corner of the couch, slouched against the back, and Mickey sprawled out horizontally with his head in Ian’s lap. 

It’s probably the most intimate position they’ve ever been in, including all the numerous times their bodies parts have been inside of each other, and the implications of that are making Ian downright giddy.

He wants to comment on it, but is terrified that doing so will make Mickey bolt. So, instead, he just reaches for a pack of cigarettes he sees sitting on the table next to the couch, and lights one, the way they always do right after sex. He takes two drags and then passes it to Mickey, who has no trouble smoking without sitting up. 

Ian starts carding one of his hands through Mickey’s hair, and while the other boy pauses briefly at the sensation, Ian just keeps doing it. He reaches for the cigarette without stopping his motions, and eventually Mickey must decide it’s not worth it to put up a fuss, because he doesn’t say a word. 

They stay like that, content and almost cuddling, until they’re ready for round two. 

***

Three hours and two fucks later, Ian reluctantly sits up straight. “I should probably get home.” He says, running a hand over his head, which is still a little damp from sweat. 

“What’s the rush?” Mickey asks lazily from the other side of the couch, playfully poking Ian’s thigh with his foot. 

Who would of thought that all it takes to get Mickey Milkovich in a good, almost sweet, mood is a marathon fuck session? 

Actually, in retrospect, Ian probably should have figured that out years ago. 

He shakes his head a little bit and grins at the older boy. “I promised Fiona I’d help her try to find the body buried in our backyard.” 

Mickey’s eyebrows rise at that, clearly intrigued. Ian just shrugs and looks around the room, trying to deduce where his shirt might have wound up. 

“Fuck, man, I can’t even tell if you’re screwing with me or not.” 

Ian smiles. “Gotta keep some of the mystery alive, right?” He knows Mandy will probably tell him, later, all about Aunt Ginger and the latest debacle at the Gallagher house. Until then, teasing Mickey is fun. 

“You’re a dick.” Mickey tells him flatly, but then he stands up and starts doing a sweep of the living room, one by one piling all of Ian’s previously discarded items of clothing in his lap. It takes a lot longer than it should. “How’d your sock wind up in the fucking kitchen?” Mickey muses at one point, not really expecting an answer. 

Ian’s fully dressed from the waist down, and is just pulling on his shirt when suddenly Mickey’s hands are there, tugging at the hem like he’s trying to help. 

He hadn’t been expecting that – Mickey’s always been more of a _get dressed and get the fuck out_ type – but then again, nothing about today has been ordinary. Ian can’t help it when the uncharacteristic display makes him smile; and he knows he looks dopey, probably all wide-eyed and in love, but Mickey doesn’t recoil from it. Quite the opposite, actually. He gets this look about him, kind of like the one he’d had when they’d first gotten here today – wanting and afraid. 

Ian doesn’t press him, just keeps smiling and waiting, willing Mickey to make the next move. 

The older boy eventually takes a breath – shallow and stuttering – and reaches his hand up to grip the side of Ian’s neck. 

The redhead swears he stops breathing for a second, so sure that Mickey’s about to kiss him. The moment seems suspended forever, neither of them moving save Ian leaning slightly into Mickey’s unexpected touch. Eventually, though, time gets through to them, and Mickey pulls his hand away. 

Ian’s disappointed for a second, but then Mickey doesn’t actually take a step back. Instead, he raises both his hands and rubs them over Ian’s head, a move that would have ruffled his hair if he’d had any there to play with, and the redhead huffs a fond laugh at the tenderness of the gesture. 

“You look like you just spent the past two hours fucking.” Mickey tells him, affection only mildly guarded.

“We spent four hours fucking,” Ian reminds him, giddy and almost high at being allowed to see this side of Mickey. 

“Mhm,” he agrees simply. “It could be worse.” 

Ian laughs out loud, and Mickey’s eyes downright fucking sparkle. 

_“Does he get that look in his eye when he’s with you?”_ Mandy’s knowing question echoes in his memory. 

_Oh_ , he thinks dumbly, watching Mickey watch him. _That look_. 

He swallows thickly, overwhelmed all of a sudden. And maybe Mickey sees it, or senses it – the turn their relationship is about to take – because he steps back then, pressing lightly at Ian’s shoulders. “Get outta here,” Mickey says firmly, though not unkindly. “Go unbury a body, or whatever you and your fucked-up family do for fun.” 

Ian smiles, not as bright as a moment ago, but still real. He reminds himself that he can’t expect too much too soon, not from a closeted Southside guy who had grown up in the Milkovich house. But, Ian doesn’t mind, not really. Mickey is worth waiting for. 

He finishes getting dressed and is in the process of leaving, half a step outside the front door, when a hand on his shoulder stops him in his tracks. He turns to see Mickey standing there with a completely unreadable expression on his face. 

Ian doesn’t even get a chance to open his mouth to ask what’s up before the older boy is surging forward and pressing their lips together. 

It’s chaste, and doesn’t last more than a heartbeat, but it leaves Ian stunned stupid all the same. 

Mickey doesn’t say anything, just steps back with blasé expression, raises his middle finger matter-of-factly, and then closes the door in Ian’s face. 

The expression _falling in love_ is a straight up lie, Ian decides then and there, standing dumbstruck on the Milkovich porch, still able to feel the faint press of Mickey’s lips on his. 

_Falling in love_ implies a single action, something that happens once and is then done. You can’t, after all, ever fall without hitting some kind of bottom eventually. But Ian loves Mickey already, and that doesn’t seem to stop him from continuing to fall. 

***  
***

Mickey’s not a complete idiot, no matter what his former teachers and current PO might think. He knows he cares about Ian fucking Gallagher. He doesn’t know when it had started, exactly, just that at some point the thought of not being around the obnoxious redheaded giant became harder and harder – and he’s not just talking about his dick, though that’s certainly a factor. 

At first, he really had thought it was just the fucking. Of all the closeted Southside shitheads he’s banged over the years – and really, it hasn’t been that many; he’s gotten laid more in juvie than he ever has in town – Ian was the first one worth a damn at nailing him. Hell, he’s man enough to admit that Gallagher has more than a lot going for him in that department, and Mickey can’t really blame himself for going back to him more than once. 

Ian’s not afraid of him; Mickey thinks that’s probably the key factor in all of it. Before, when he let other guys fuck him, there was always an element of fear. Hell, most of the time, the faggot ass bitches didn’t even want to top him; Mickey had to tell them, outright, to get on him, and something about spelling it out like that lessened the pleasure considerably. 

With Ian, from day one, it hadn’t even been a question. Those first few months, before that pussy-whipped towelhead had shot him and he’d gone to juvie for the first time, Ian had even been smaller than them – not his dick, that’s always been obnoxiously (beautifully) large – but in height and muscle mass, Mickey had trounced him. Or at least they’d been pretty close to the same size. But even back then, Ian hadn’t hesitated in turning him over and pounding the ever-living shit out of him. No fear whatsoever. Mickey had come embarrassingly fast that first time. Then, so had Ian. 

Kash probably hadn’t been a good lay. Ian won’t tell him for sure, even now, but Mickey’s pretty damn sure the bastard had been the roll-over-and-take-it-and-then-probably-cry type. Ian had been in dire need of something a little more fun, and little more dangerous. Mickey had fit that bill in spades. 

He still remembers seeing Mandy outside the gates that first time he’d gotten out of juvie and wondering, briefly, who the fuck she’d brought with her. Because he hadn’t recognized Ian post-growth spurt at first. Once he had, he’d known that any thought he’d had of _not_ fucking the other boy again was out the window in a big way. 

Mickey’s never allowed himself much time to think about what his type is, in terms of sexual partner preferences. He barely thinks about being gay at all, in fact. But, if he had to piece something together, some physical body type that he’d choose if given a chance, the vague image he always formed in his head was _tall_ , _broad_ , and _bigger than him_. All of a sudden, and out of fucking nowhere, Ian Gallagher had fit that bill to a mother fucking _tee_. 

Maybe it was that first fuck in the baseball dugout that had done him in. Ian had grown up, more than just physically, and Mickey had started _wanting_. 

That seems to be where he’s stuck, now: wanting Ian. Wanting Ian enough that he’d _kissed_ the fucker yesterday, actually fucking kissed him, just because that shithead rich asshole had done it first. Mickey doesn’t like it when people take what’s his, and that’s exactly what that prick was trying to do. So, Mickey had given the redhead what he’d wanted. He can’t help hoping that it’s enough to make him stick around, for at least a while longer. 

He doesn’t know when he’d started caring about Ian fucking Gallagher, but he’s well and truly fucked by the time he figures it out. 

Maybe he is a dumb as everyone thinks he is, after all. Because Ian’s been looking at him knowingly almost since day one, but Mickey hadn’t seen this coming at all.

___________________________________________________

**Next Time:**

_“Oh,” Lip adds, halfway out the door, turning around so his back’s pressed into it, “and you should take your bodyguard with you,” he nods towards Mickey, who makes a pissed-off face in Lip’s direction at the comment but actually doesn’t mind the title too much, especially given the current circumstances._

___________________________________________________


	2. Subdued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story title from the Fall Out Boy song "Alone Together"

**\--II—**

_Subdued_

***

Eagerness isn’t something Mickey ever thought he’d feel in relation to going to work, but that’s Gallagher for you – continually fucking up Mickey’s entire world order, one menial task at a time. 

He’d kissed the guy yesterday, which had been weird enough, now he’s actually looking forward to spending time with him. Mickey won’t admit that, of course, but he can’t help that he knows it’s true. He tries not to think too hard about it. 

They’ll fuck in the stockroom like the usually do, and maybe things will go back to feeling normal. 

He can hope, anyway. 

He goes to leave that morning, only a little earlier than strictly necessary, and is surprised when he sees Mandy sitting at the kitchen table eating cereal. 

“Hey.” His shock stops him from saying anything cleverer than that. His shock doesn’t last long. “I thought you were still playing house with the Gallagher spawn. They kick you out for overcrowding or some shit?” 

She flicks him off without looking up. 

Mickey shrugs. “Where’s our not-a-dude half-sister?” 

“Her mom showed up early this morning.” She tells him, shrugging. “Guess the kid was just trying to run away.” 

Mickey makes a face even though his sister isn’t looking. “Bitch raised her son like a girl ‘cause she hates men so much she can’t deal with the fact that she fucking _made_ one. I can’t imagine how jacked up that kid’s gonna be in a few years. Can’t really blame her for wanting to split.” 

Mandy just kind of hums, clearly distracted by something, and Mickey decides to leave her to it, because frankly, he doesn’t really give a shit what’s going on with her and her whatever-the-fuck she’s calling Ian’s brother these days. They fuck, is all Mickey really knows about their setup, and that’s already too much information for him. 

“I’m goin’ to work.” He says, mostly out of habit. Then, when the thought occurs to him, “You know when dad’s getting back?” 

“A few days, I think.” Mandy shrugs. “Maybe sooner.” 

Mickey nods, and doesn’t let the disappointment show on his face. He’d been hoping for another home-alone fuck day with Ian, but without an exact arrival time for their father, it’s way too risky. 

“Kay,” he nods, “see ya.” 

“Oh, hey,” Mandy stops him when he’s almost at the door. 

Mickey doesn’t bother hiding his annoyance as he turns back around. “ _What_? Fuck.” 

“Ian told me to tell you that he won’t be at work today.” She stops talking after that, going back to her cereal like _that’s_ somehow a sufficient end to that statement. 

“Why?” He snaps a few seconds later when she doesn’t elaborate, sounding far more on edge than he means to. 

Mandy looks at him like he’s a freak. “I dunno.” She shrugs. “You two seem to get along, for some fucking reason, maybe he wanted you to know you could pick up a few extra hours or something. Jesus.” 

Mickey refrains from rolling his eyes, or strangling her. “Why won’t he be at work?” 

She looks at him strangely again. “Do you honestly care?” 

Mickey well and truly _does_ , but it’s not like he can tell her that. “If the dude’s sick or something I’d like a heads up before _I_ start hacking up a lung or whatever. That store’s tiny, I probably caught whatever he’s got.” 

“No worries, he’s not sick.” Mandy says easily, but when Mickey keeps staring at her expectantly, she finally rolls her eyes and relents. “DCFS got some anonymous tip. They came by the Gallagher’s yesterday and took all the kids away. That’s why I split.” 

“Fuck.” Mickey breathes, and can only hope in retrospect that it comes out vaguely sympathetic, and nothing more. “Any idea where your boyfriend wound up?” 

Mandy shrugs. “Some creepy ass foster family, probably.” She looks at Mickey then, as if gauging how seriously he might actually be taking this. “Fiona doesn’t think it’ll last long. Apparently it’s happened before and never does.”

Mickey just hums, silently encouraging her to say more but too chicken shit to actually ask for details. Luckily for him, now that she’s started, Mandy doesn’t seem to need much encouragement to keep talking. 

“I feel bad for Debbie and Carl. The younger ones.” She expands when Mickey makes a confused face. “Liam’s too young to know what’s going on, but the other two looked really scared.” She shakes her head. “Can you believe _we_ never wound up in the system? I mean, with everything dad does?” 

“Dad may suck, but he’s a parent.” Mickey points out. “Gallagher’s don’t really have one of those. Unless you count Frank.” 

“Which, honestly, who could?” Mandy huffs a little. One thing all the Milkovich’s have in common is a deep-seated hatred of Frank Gallagher. Then again, that’s true of most of the Southside. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ian that pissed off.” Mandy muses a moment later, catching Mickey’s attention immediately. “He looked just like Lip; ready to storm off and beat the shit out of somebody. I feel bad for whoever made that tip, if the Gallagher’s ever find out who did.” 

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees absently, wondering what a truly enraged Ian is going to be like. “Me, too.” 

***

Without Ian there, work is just fucking _work_. Mickey stocks shelves and stands by the door, scowling at would-be shoplifters. The part-time guy behind the counter – Jake, Jack, Jason, something like that – tries to chitchat with him, but Mickey just glares until he gets the point and shuts up. 

He stays behind for a few minutes after his shift is over, making sure what’s-his-face is gone before he grabs the walkie-talkie from behind the counter and asks Linda if she knows when Ian’ll be back. 

“I sent proof of his employment to the place he’s staying,” she answers him, a little less coldly than she normally speaks to him. “Hopefully tomorrow.” 

Mickey wants to ask where _the place he’s staying_ is, if Linda has an address or a name, but he’s too fucking scared to actually get the words out. Linda probably knows he and Ian are fucking, at this point, but there’s something different about saying it out loud, and he can’t bring himself to do it. 

He sleeps restlessly that night, his mind supplying him with far too many worst-case-scenarios about Ian’s current predicament. He hates that he doesn’t know where the other boy is, hates that there’s nothing he can do to keep him safe, that he doesn’t even know if Ian needs to be kept safe wherever he is.

Mickey tells himself that he’s being a fucking pussy about the whole thing. Even if Ian had wound up somewhere fucked, Mickey knows the redhead can take care of himself – he’s a tough sonnova bitch, it’s one of the things Mickey fucking _likes_ about him – but that knowledge doesn’t seem to be enough to stop him from worrying. 

The knot of stress that had formed in his gut when Mandy had told him about the Gallagher’s being taken away, the one that had gotten bigger and tighter with every minute Mickey had spent thinking about it, doesn’t loosen until Mickey sees Ian again. 

It feels like it’s been longer than thirty-six hours. Hell, it feels like it’s been fucking _months_ when Ian finally shows up for his shift the next day, and Mickey knows that the way his heart flutters when he catches sight of Ian walking through that door means something. 

That it just might mean everything. 

“Hey,” he greets the younger boy, and is a little surprised at the emotion he hears in his own voice. 

Ian startles, too, having not seen Mickey in the aisle when he’d first come in. The guy has dark bags under his eyes and flinches slightly, before he realizes who’s talking to him. “Fuck.” he mutters under his breath. Then, louder, “Hey.” 

He tosses his backpack behind the counter and then just stands there for a second, like he can’t quite remember what he’s supposed to do next. 

Mickey approaches him cautiously. “You alright, man?” 

“Yeah.” Ian says immediately, too quick for Mickey to believe him. He’s still on the customer side of the counter, and leans against it as he crosses his arms over his chest. The drawn behavior is weird, for Ian, and makes all those fears Mickey’s been trying to block out come back tenfold. “Sorry I wasn’t here yesterday.” 

Mickey snorts, because of course Ian would fucking apologize for something like that. “Mandy told me what happened.” He says, watching Ian’s expression shift to dulled surprise. “It’s fucked up.” He offers lamely. 

Ian huffs a laugh with absolutely no humor in it. “What isn’t, right?” He shakes his head. “We been busy so far today?” 

Mickey thinks its fucking stupid that Ian’s trying to talk to him about the store right now, when Mickey wants to hear about everything that had happened to him since the last time they’d seen each other a fuck of a lot more, but he goes with it for the time being. “Nah, man, pretty dead.” He licks his lips and then bites his bottom one, trying to decide how to play this. “Linda’s got me stocking all this shit,” he gestures to the boxes stacked at the end of the aisle, “you gonna help?” 

Having a task actually seems to ease him up some, because in less than half an hour of unpacking and stocking canned goods, some of the tension in Ian’s shoulders noticeably dissipates. He’s still not talking, which is fucking weird, and another ten minutes pass before Mickey decides that he’s had just about enough of the strained silence as he can take. 

“Fuck, Gallagher, they didn’t stick you with some pervert or something did they?” Mickey blurts, and he might have been amused by the dumbfounded expression Ian’s suddenly sporting, had he not been so genuinely afraid of the answer. “Because if I need to pound the shit outta somebody, I’d really like to know before lunch.” 

Ian smiles at him, fondly amused, and finally, fucking _finally_ , starts actually talking. “Nah, turns out me and Lip are actually too old for foster care.” Ian tells him, turning all the cans of beans so their labels are facing the same direction. “We’re at this group home that’s more like a prison than a home. Gunderson House?” 

Mickey nods. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it.” He has, too, though nothing good. 

“It’s like one big room filled with bunk beds, probably a hundred of us crammed in there.” Ian shakes his head, sounding annoyed; which is a drastic step up, in Mickey’s opinion, from his withdrawn behavior earlier. “And there’s absolutely no privacy. Like, if I want to jackoff, I have to do it in the bathroom.” 

“I cannot begin to imagine what a pussy you’d be in juvie.” Mickey teases, and chuckles brightly when Ian responds by throwing a can at him. He catches it easily, tossing it around in his hand as a thought occurs to him. “You fuck anyone in there yet?” 

“God, no.” Ian balks at him. 

“Wise choice.” Mickey tells him, happier than he thought he’d be at hearing that denial. “Even if you are propositioned, it’s probably just a setup. Guys wanna find out if you’re gay and pound the shit out of you. And not in a good way.” 

“Great.” Ian deadpans. 

A few minutes of silence pass between them, before Mickey hears himself asking, “How long you think you’re gonna be there?” 

Ian shrugs. “Until Fiona figures out how to get us back home.” He answers, though that isn’t much of an answer at all. “If she can.” 

“Whaddya mean, _if_?” Mickey demands. “What the fuck happens if she can’t?” 

“I drop out of school, start working full time, and file for emancipation.” Ian says, with a surprising succinctness. “It’ll take about six months, with a semi-decent lawyer.” 

Mickey does absolutely nothing to hide his shock. Ian sees it, and smiles softly. “Lip and me came up with a plan the last time this happened. It’ll be easier for him, ‘cause he’s almost eighteen, anyway, but I am _not_ spending the next two years in a group home. _Fuck_ that.” 

Mickey respects the shit out of Ian’s unwavering certainty. He hopes it doesn’t come to that, because Ian’s one of the only people he knows who’s actually smart enough to get out of that fuck hole of a high school with a diploma to his name, but he understands better than anyone that sometimes shit gets in the way. 

“My brother used to bang a chick who was in law school.” Mickey offers. “She was real into slummin’ it with him for a while. He might still have her number, if you wind up needing it.” 

Ian seems relieved by Mickey’s response – like maybe he’d thought he was going to catch shit from the older boy for his plan – and takes a moment to nudge his shoulder as they pass each other in the aisle. “Thanks, Mick.” 

***

Mickey’s unreasonably pissed off a couple hours later when he hears the bell attached to the front door chime. They’ve barely had half a dozen customers all day, but each one has managed to show up just as he’d been trying to coerce Ian into closing the store down for a few minutes and taking out some of his frustrations on Mickey’s ass in the backroom. 

“Probably shouldn’t.” He’d muttered last time, reluctantly pulling away from the spot on Mickey’s neck he’d been licking enticingly. “If Linda sends me home early they might revoke my work privileges.” 

“Since when is work a fucking privilege?” Mickey had snapped, in part to cover up his own mounting sexual frustration. “If I didn’t get a job they’d’a sent me back to juvie. Fuck, they make you work in _prison_.” 

“And that’s the difference between being a delinquent,” Mickey had taken a moment to flick him off, “and coming from a family so fucked up that the state feels the need to forcibly remove you from it.” 

The bitterness in Ian’s tone had been palpable. “Hey, man,” Mickey had said, a little more serious than he normally would be, “your family’s a lot less fucked than mine.” 

Ian had smiled at him then, soft and almost sympathetic. Mickey had recoiled from the way it’d made his gut twist. “Maybe so,” he’d agreed, “but try telling that to DCFS.” 

Mickey damn well fucking would, if he thought it’d make a single bit of difference. He’s fucking sick of seeing Ian like this already, and can’t imagine the younger boy’s forlorn mood extending into the next several days, never mind weeks or months. 

He’s just trying to come up with a plan to maybe get him out of that place for a few days when the door opens again, and Mickey just barely stops himself from screaming at the intruding customer. 

Good thing, too, because the person who comes through the door this time isn’t a customer, and he’s definitely not intruding. Well, he is, fuck you very much, but only for Mickey; Ian seems much more pleased to see his big brother, even though the two of them are together at that shit Home and had probably seen each other less than eight hours ago. 

“Hey, man.” Ian greets, with a touch of hesitance. “Everything alright?” 

Lip is clearly out of breath, like he’d run to the store from wherever he’d been. He’s wearing a telltale community service vest, and is dirty like he’s been shoveling dirt around on the side of the road all day – probably how he’d gotten a day pass from Gunderson, Mickey thinks. Not even state-run group homes can interfere with state-mandated community service hours. 

“Hey. Yeah, it’s good.” Lip assures, and Ian settles a little from where he’d gone tense at Lip’s unexpected arrival. “I need to talk to you, though.” 

“Okay.” Ian agrees, looking on expectantly. 

Mickey had walked over from the back of the store, and is now standing parallel to Ian on the other side of the counter, arms hung loosely at his sides so as not to intimidate the second-eldest Gallagher douchebag. But Lip still side-eyes him warily. “In private.” He says to Ian, making it blatantly clear to all of them that he doesn’t want Mickey to be part of this conversation. 

The Milkovich bristles at that, because like fuck Lip is going to tell him what he can and can’t know about Ian’s fucking life. He bites his tongue, of course, because no one’s allowed to know how much he cares, not even Ian, but he still doesn’t move from where he’s standing. He won’t until Ian asks him to. 

The redheaded Gallagher just rolls his eyes, unconcerned with his brother’s paranoia or his lover’s growing irritation. “It’s cool, man,” he says easily, “Mickey knows what’s going on.” 

“Of course he fucking does.” Lip remarks, rolling his eyes. “Look, I don’t have time for this, I ran over on a break and have to get back.” 

“No wonder you smell like ass.” Mickey comments. 

Ian shoots him a plaintive _could you not?_ look, and Lip flicks him off. He smirks at both of them, amused by their respective responses. 

Lip glares at him for another few seconds, before finally rolling his eyes and continuing on with the task at hand, apparently deeming Mickey not a threat to his family. Mickey, for his part, isn’t sure whether he should be insulted by Lip’s lack of fear or happy that Ian had stuck up for him. He settles on not thinking about it at all and just listening to what Lip says next. 

“Fiona found out where Carl and Liam are staying.” He pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and hands it to Ian. 

The redhead squints at the address. “This is on the Northside.” 

“Yeah.” Lips agrees. “Some yuppy couple, I guess. Fiona already went over there earlier, but you should, too.” 

“What about you?” Ian asks, before Mickey can do it for him. 

“Ah, one of us has to cover at the place,” Lip explains. “And D’Andre hates me a lot more, he’d notice if I was gone.” 

“That’s true.” Ian agrees, and Mickey almost wants to ask what Lip has done in the short amount of time they’ve been there to piss people off so fast. Then again, he’s met Lip, and can pretty much guess. “But it’s still risky. I mean, I wanna see Carl and Liam, but if Fiona already did, I’m sure they’re fine.” 

Lip tilts his head and makes a face like he almost doesn’t want to say what he’s going to say next. “They might not be, man.” 

Ian shakes his head. “Carl woulda told Fiona.” 

“We didn’t, last time.” Lip argues, and suddenly every muscle in Mickey’s body is frozen and he can feel the hair on his arms stand up. 

Ian shoots him a quick look, as if sensing the change in his body language. Lip follows his brother’s gaze, and sees what must be the murderous rage on his face. 

“Yeah, Mickey, foster parents willing to take in pre-adolescent kids with violent tendencies usually aren’t the most upstanding citizens in the world.” He sounds angry, which, in this instance, the Milkovich boy can’t actually blame him for. 

“It’s fine.” Ian says, trying to soothe both of them maybe. Then, to Lip, “I’ll go over there, but I think you’re panicking about nothing. Carl’s smarter than we were back then.” Lip snorts at that, and Ian almost immediately backpedals. “Okay, no, he’s not, but he promised to protect Liam, and you know he will.” 

“Yeah,” Lip agrees, “possibly by stabbing someone.” 

Ian nods. “That’s a good point.” He admits, almost too quickly. 

“Look, I gotta get back.” Lip says, glancing at the clock on the wall. “But I got you covered for the night. If anything’s going on over there, you know what to do. And, if everything’s cool, enjoy the free pass.” 

“Yeah, will do.”

“Oh,” Lip adds, halfway out the door, turning around so his back’s pressed into it, “and you should take your bodyguard with you,” he nods towards Mickey, who makes a pissed-off face in Lip’s direction at the comment but actually doesn’t mind the title too much, especially given the current circumstances. “nothing gets a Northsider to show their true colors quicker than a Southsider with tattoos like his.”

“Fuck you very much, Gallagher.” Mickey responds, absently waving his middle finger at the other boy. Once he’s gone, however, he turns back to Ian with an expectant expression. “You wanna take the L all the way out there, or you wanna borrow a car from one’a my brothers?”

___________________________________________________

**Next Time:**

 _What Mickey’s not expecting, however, is for the next words out of Carl’s mouth to be, “Hey Ian? Was your dick in Jimmy’s dad’s mouth?”_

_“What the fuck?” Mickey exclaims, loud enough that even Liam stops his melody against Ian’s stomach to look over at him. He flushes a little bit, and clears his throat. “Warn people when you’re gonna start talking about sex.” He spits at Carl, purposely annoyed to cover up his own shock. “Jesus.”_

___________________________________________________


	3. Curiosity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potential trigger warning in this chapter for references to attempted molestation of a child (in the past, not graphic).

**\--III--**

_Curiosity_

***

Ian opts for public transportation, claiming that he doesn’t want to get pulled over in what would probably be a stolen car when neither of them even technically have licenses. Mickey playfully calls him a pussy, nudging his shoulder as they walk through the train station, but Ian snaps at him, anger coiling up and striking, unexpectedly fierce. 

“And if I get fucking arrested, there’s no way in hell the state is gonna let me go home, and it’ll probably fuck up any chance Fiona has at getting the kids back, so fucking excuse me for giving a shit about what happens to my family, Mickey.” 

“Jesus.” the older boy says, surprised, concerned, a little bit inappropriately turned on. “Fucking Christ, man, I was joking. Lighten up.” 

Ian collapses on a bench, dropping his head in his hands briefly and then sitting up enough to scrub them over his face, like he’s hoping it’ll clear his head out. “Sorry,” he breathes, shooting Mickey an apologetic look. 

The older boy shrugs and sits down next to him, close enough that their knees are touching. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“No, I mean…” he trails off for a moment, seemingly lost. “Look, you don’t have to come with me. It’s my fucked-up family shit, not yours.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” Mickey says, rather matter-of-factly. He doesn’t want either of them dwelling too long on what this little excursion means, but he’s also sure as shit not backing out of it. 

Ian doesn’t say anything else, but eventually he relaxes a little bit; sits up fully and even smiles knowingly, when he realizes how close Mickey is to him. He rolls his eyes when he sees Ian put that together, but he refuses to move – principals or some shit. Plus, it’d make him look like a coward. Still, he can’t help but snap, “I ain’t gonna hold your fucking hand, so don’t even think about it.” 

It makes him a little proud when Ian laughs at that. “Didn’t fucking ask you to.” He responds, amused more than anything else. 

When the train finally comes, Mickey leads them to a spot in the back where there aren’t many other people around them. Ian sits down in a corner seat, and while Mickey could have sat next to him – it’s not like people don’t do that on the fucking train – he chooses to plop down one seat away in the opposite corner instead. Ian doesn’t comment on that, just immediately drops his head back and closes his eyes. 

Mickey really hopes the guy doesn’t make it a habit of letting his guard down like that in public, and that he’s only allowing himself the moment of reprieve now because he knows Mickey’s there to watch his back. 

As if to prove his point, a few minutes later Ian’s eyes are still closed, and he doesn’t notice it when some business-suit-wearing homo walks by and sizes him up like he’s a fucking piece of meat. 

Mickey doesn’t even think about it, just raises his leg up so his foot’s resting on the empty seat to Ian’s left, essentially bracketing him off from everyone else. The guy in the suit glances at Mickey when he sees the gesture, clearly annoyed, but one look at Mickey’s _you seriously wanna fuck with me right now?_ raised eyebrows, and he backs off, moving to another section of the train. 

“That was very chivalrous.” Ian’s head is still resting against the back of the seat, when Mickey glances over at him, but his eyes are open now, and he’d apparently caught at least some of that exchange. 

“Fuck you.” Mickey deadpans, but he doesn’t move his leg. 

About ten minutes into the ride and Ian hasn’t done much more than gaze forlornly out the window, and Mickey’s given up all pretense of not staring at him. “So what was your shithead brother talking about?” 

Ian shifts his eyeline to Mickey without actually moving his head. “Huh?” 

“The last time, or whatever,” Mickey elaborates, “he said you guys lied about something that happened with your foster parents?” 

Ian reaches up with one hand and rubs a finger under his nose. “It was nothing.” 

“Like fuck it was nothing.” Mickey counters. 

Ian sighs and lowers his arm, crossing it over his stomach far enough that his hand is right by Mickey’s ankle. He uses his fingers to lift the cuff of the older boy’s jeans and brush at the exposed skin there. Mickey’s breath catches in his throat, and he immediately glances around, makes sure no one can see what Ian’s doing. But, nobody’s paying them any attention at all, and even if they were, the angle they’re sitting at would make it almost impossible for anyone else to catch Ian’s movements. 

“Don’t have to be scared all the time, Mick.” The redhead tells him, and Mickey really fucking wishes that were true. Still, the calm cadence of Ian’s voice does help settle his rapidly pounding heart. 

He doesn’t respond or pull away, just raises his chin and prods the younger boy, “Tell me what happened.” 

Ian shakes his head, but it’s not a denial. “Guy was a fucking pedophile.” He says calmly, and Mickey doesn’t understand how he can say that with anything less than rage, because that’s all Mickey can feel right now – an almost blind hatred towards this man from Ian’s past that he’ll probably never meet. “Had a peephole in the bathroom.” 

“Did he touch you?” And maybe the question comes out a little too fast, and with a little too much force, but he’s not afraid of Ian seeing how much he needs to know the answer to this. For once, hiding how he feels doesn’t seem that important at all. 

“No.” Ian says, and it sounds almost soothing, like he can tell what Mickey’s going to do with even the slightest provocation. “No, he never did.” Then, almost reluctantly, he adds, “Wanted to, though. Tried, once. Lip stabbed him in the dick with a fork.” 

Mickey exhales shakily. “Good for him.” 

“That’s what Fiona said, when we finally told her about it.” Ian shares, and Mickey’s estimation of Ian’s entire family skyrockets. “It was weird. There were a bunch of foster kids in that house, and so many of them were redheads that I actually asked Lip if we were related to them.” 

“Sick bastard had a type.” Mickey swallows thickly at the same moment Ian’s fingers squeeze around his ankle, as if trying to ground him. It’s kind of working. 

“Yeah.” Ian agrees absently, clearly caught up in the memories now. “I was a little younger than Carl, when that happened. After we got home, I slept in Lip’s bed for, like, six months.” He huffs a little, and Mickey’s heart constricts painfully. “That’s how Fiona knew something had happened.” He takes a deep breath. “Shit, I haven’t thought about that in years.” 

Mickey shifts so he’s a little closer to Ian, his foot pressing against the other boy’s thigh. “Mandy used to sneak into my room when we were kids and our dad would get drunk and wail on me.” 

Ian’s expression is equal parts sadness and hatred, when Mickey tells him that, but there’s absolutely no pity there. Maybe that’s why Mickey keeps talking. 

“Didn’t happen as much as you’d think,” he shrugs, “and not really at all once we got big enough to fight back.” 

“I still hate your dad.” Ian squeezes his ankle again. “Like, a lot.” 

Mickey studies his face and sees, without having to look hard at all, the almost overwhelming amount of emotions there. It’s not actually difficult for Mickey to picture the kind of life the two of them might be able to have together, if it weren’t for outside forces like Terry Milkovich and Mickey’s own pathetically transparent fear. And there’s that want again, Mickey thinks. Wanting Ian has cascaded into wanting a whole different kind of life _with_ Ian, and that scares the shit out of him, absolutely, but not nearly as much as it should.

“Me, too.” Mickey finally whispers, looking away. 

***

The place Ian’s brothers are staying is fucking huge, and way too goddamn clean for a toddler and a preteen. Mickey’s sure the youngest Gallaghers won’t last a week there before they piss someone off too much and get sent away. Hopefully, by then, shit with the rest of Ian’s family will be sorted and they’ll be back where they belong. 

“It’s so nice that Carl and Liam have so many people wanting to visit them,” the foster guy is saying to Ian, while eyeing Mickey’s tattooed knuckles warily out of the corner of his eye, “your sister stopped by earlier. We told her we think it’s important that the boys remember where they came from.” 

“I’m sure they’ll remember just fine when they’re back there a week from now.” Mickey can’t stop himself from saying. He gets aggressive in hostile environments, sue him. 

“He’s not related to you, is he?” The guy, who has some fruity name like _Lance_ or _Leopold_ , speaks only to Ian. 

“No.” Ian assures him, with a wide, painfully fake, smile. “Just a friend.”

“Good.” He nods. “After the boys are ours, we’re really going to have to be strict about only family visiting.” 

Mickey snorts. Ian elbows him in the ribs. 

“Ian!” Before any of them can continue bickering, Carl appears from one of the rooms in the back, all but leaping into the older Gallagher’s arms. 

“Hey, buddy.” Ian greets him affectionately, lifting him all the way off the ground in a move that Mickey’s sure Carl would only tolerate from his older siblings. “I missed you.” 

Another man appears from the same direction Carl had come from. This one is black, but still looks wildly out of place holding Liam. Ian sees his youngest brother and immediately reaches out for him. The older black dude hesitates for a second, but when Mickey steps up just behind Ian’s shoulder and glares menacingly, he suddenly sees the wisdom in relenting, and hands over the baby. 

“It’s very nice to meet you, Ian,” he says formally, eyes darting more often than not to Mickey, “and your…friend.” 

“You, too,” Ian says brightly, ignoring the tense atmosphere in the room in favor of making stupid faces at Liam and delighting at the baby’s bubbly laughter. 

While Ian’s distracted, Mickey takes a look around the place, silently evaluating what he’d want to steal if they were here to do that – and what he might be able to take, anyway, even though they’re not. It’s only upon scanning the mantle above the fireplace and seeing several framed pictures of Carl and Liam’s foster parents in clichéd romantic settings that it clicks with Mickey that these two guys are gay. 

He looks back at them sharply. They’re standing next to each other now, shoulder to shoulder, and Mickey’s breath starts to speed up a little. This is not what he’d been expecting when Lip had told Ian about the yuppy Northside foster family. He wonders if they can tell what he and Ian are. If they somehow have a sense for it, because they are, too. _Fuck_. 

To compensate for his sudden fear, Mickey crosses his arms over his chest and all but snarls at the pair. “Hey, Carl, why don’t you show us your room, huh?” One of the guys looks like he’s going to protest, probably wanting Carl and Liam to stay in their sights during this little visit, but Mickey extends into the space around him, the way he does when he’s preparing to fight, and the guys are pussy enough that they back down immediately. 

Shitty parents, is what they’d be. 

“Sure.” The boy shrugs. “It’s through here.” 

Mickey and Ian follow him down a hallway and into a rather large bedroom. Ian’s still holding Liam, but he glances at Mickey with a knowing eyebrow quirk. 

“What?” The older boy demands, waving his arms a little for emphasis. 

“You didn’t have to scare them.” Ian mentions, though he doesn’t sound particularly angry. 

“But it was funny,” only that comes from Carl, who had, unbeknownst to Mickey, been paying attention to that entire exchange. 

“See? The kid gets it.” Mickey flops down on a chair off to the side, while Ian sits on the bed, leaning up against the headboard with Liam in his lap. 

“You’re Mandy’s brother, right?” Carl asks him, looking him up and down for the first time. 

“Yeah, so?” Mickey nods, wishing he had a cigarette. Well, technically he _does_ have a cigarette, but he’s pretty sure Ian would kill him if he lit one up right now. 

“Why are you here?” 

“Mickey and I work together, Carl.” Ian jumps in. “We’re friends.” 

Carl nods like that makes enough sense, and then looks back at his brother. “Did you bring him so he’d scare Lanier and Cassius?” 

“That’s those dude’s names?” Mickey exclaims before Ian can respond. “Holy fuck.” 

Carl snickers, and Ian rolls his eyes. 

“It was Lip’s idea, actually.” Ian explains, looking at Carl thoughtfully as his toddler brother plays idly with the hem of his t-shirt. “He’s worried about you guys.” 

“Yeah, well.” Carl shrugs, and sits down on the other edge of the bed. “When are we coming home?” 

“Soon.” Ian says confidently, like he actually knows that for a fact, and Mickey hopes Carl appreciates it someday, that his siblings care enough to lie to him. “You wanna get outta here?” 

“Duh.” Carl rolls his eyes. “These guys are like robots, they make us eat _kale_ , and everything smells like flowers.” 

Huh, Mickey thinks, that’s what’s been making his nose itchy this whole time. 

“Yeah,” Ian chuckles a little, “but that’s it, right? They’re not, like…doing anything to you, are they?” 

Carl shrugs. “Like what?” 

“Hurting you?” Ian asks bluntly. 

“V asked me that, too.” Carl says, sounding almost annoyed. “Does that happen a lot?” 

“Not too often.” Ian shakes his head, another lie. “But it can.” 

“They’re not mean or creepers or anything,” Carl offers. “I just don’t like it here.” 

“Can’t blame ya, kid.” Mickey tosses in, trying to ignore the pull in his gut that’s definitely _not_ affection at how Liam has managed to push Ian’s shirt almost all the way up to his chest, and has forced the older boy to lean back farther so he can slap his tiny baby hands against Ian’s bare torso in some parody of rhythm. Ian’s just letting him do it, too; like he doesn’t care or hasn’t even noticed. 

“We’ll be home soon.” Ian promises. 

Carl doesn’t look convinced, because he’s clearly old enough to know how this sort of shit works, but for the moment at least he seems content enough to change the subject. What Mickey’s not expecting, however, is for the next words out of Carl’s mouth to be, “Hey Ian? Was your dick in Jimmy’s dad’s mouth?” 

“What the fuck?” Mickey exclaims, loud enough that even Liam stops his melody against Ian’s stomach to look over at him. He flushes a little bit, and clears his throat. “Warn people when you’re gonna start talking about sex.” He spits at Carl, purposely annoyed to cover up his own shock. “ _Jesus_.” 

Ian chuckles at his outburst, which seems to calm the kids down. Eventually, Mickey settles back into his seat, Liam goes back to drooling on Ian, and Carl just looks at his brother expectantly. 

“Did Jimmy tell you that?” Ian asks first, maybe trying to avoid the question, though Mickey’s not sure if that’s because he doesn’t want to talk about sex with his little brother, or if he doesn’t want to talk about sex with Ned while Mickey’s in the room. Honestly, Mickey’s not sure what reason he wants to be true more. 

“He said it wasn’t,” Carl explains, “but he’s a pretty bad liar.” 

“Surprisingly that’s true.” Ian agrees. Then, “Why do you care where I put my dick, huh?” 

“Because if you put it in another dude’s mouth, that means you’re gay.” Carl answers easily, sounding more intrigued than anything else, though that doesn’t stop something deep and primal in Mickey from flaring up at the thought of Ian being outed, even if it is just to his little brother. 

Ian doesn’t look at Mickey, barely even looks at Carl, in fact. His focus is back on Liam, who’s currently climbing up Ian’s chest like he thinks it’s some kind of jungle gym. “I am gay.” He finally says, with a calmness that Mikey’s sure he himself would never be able to manage saying those words, no matter who they were directed at. 

Carl’s response surprises Mickey more than words can accurately express. “That’s _awesome_.” The boy exclaims, and even Ian looks up at that with a quizzical expression. 

“It is?” 

Carl jumps off the bed suddenly and throws himself down on the floor next to it, clearly searching for something. Ian looks over at Mickey then, finally, with a question in his gaze. Mickey just shrugs and shakes his head; _your fucking family, man, just don’t drag me into it_. 

Ian grins and looks away again as soon as Carl hops back up onto the bed. He’s got a magazine in his hands, already opened to a certain page, and he shoves it in Ian’s face with no warning. “What do you call that?” 

It takes Ian a second to actually focus on whatever’s in front of him, but once he does he exclaims, “Jesus fucking Christ, Carl,” and snatches the magazine out of the younger boy’s hands. “Where the fuck did you get that?” 

“I stole it from Cassius and Lanier’s room.” Carl explains, unconcerned with Ian’s reaction. Mickey is beyond curious what Carl had showed him to prompt a response like that. “They locked up all their porn DVDs after they caught me watching one, but I found that in their closet.” 

Ian blinks at his brother. “Why were you watching gay porn?” 

Carl shrugs, not looking the least bit ashamed or scared. It’s fucked up, Mickey has to admit, if only to himself, that he’s sitting over here feeling jealous of a fucking child. Where had people like the Gallaghers been when _he_ was a confused, curious little kid wanting to ask all sorts of questions, but knowing that he couldn’t? 

“I was curious,” Carl answers, unknowingly mimicking Mickey’s thoughts. The Milkovich forces himself to stop dwelling on it, what his life would have been like if he’d grown up with better adults. It is what it is, there’s nothing he can do about it, and he’s stronger for it. 

Still scared, a little voice in the back of his head reminds him. He tells it to shut the fuck up. 

“About gay sex?” Ian’s asking. 

“Little Hank told me that when two dudes have sex, one of their penises opens up so the other can go in it.” Carl tells his brother, and even Mickey reacts to that, snorting loudly and then coughing, when the other two look over at him. 

“Little Hank’s an idiot.” He says, because come the fuck on. Gay or not, no one should think that’s how two dudes get it on. 

“Yeah, Mickey’s right.” Ian agrees. “That’s not how it works.” 

Carl rolls his eyes. “I know that now.” He says, like the two of them are the idiots. “I watched the porn, I get it. It’s a butt thing.” 

“Ohmigod,” Mickey says, and slouches down in the chair until his eyes are on the ceiling. “I cannot fucking deal with this shit.” 

Ian’s laughing outright; the movement of it jostling Liam a little where he’s now sleeping soundly splayed out on Ian’s chest, his head on his shoulder. Mickey doesn’t look back over because he thinks the sight of Ian holding his brother like that – arm wrapped protectively around him, large hand cradling the toddler’s head – is cute, or anything fucking gay like that. It’s just _right_. Like family, and home. Mickey likes the sight of it, for some reason, even though the family isn’t his and never will be. 

“So, did you stick your dick in Jimmy’s dad’s butt?” Carl asks, sounding absolutely serious and amazingly determined. 

Ian takes a deep breath, like he’s preparing for war. “I did.” 

Mickey doesn’t love hearing that, but the amusement he feels at watching Ian having to explain all of this to his brother is almost enough to make up for it. 

Carl nods thoughtfully. “Did he stick his dick up _your_ butt?” 

“Yeah,” Mickey prods a few seconds later, when Ian doesn’t immediately respond. “did he?” Mostly he’s just trying to fuck with guy, but a part of him really does (or maybe really doesn’t) want to hear the answer. 

“No,” Ian says, carefully keeping his eyes on Carl. “No, he didn’t do that.”

Mickey really hopes neither of them can read his relief.

Carl, for his part, is just chewing on his bottom lip. “Does that mean he’s more gay than you?” 

Ian actually laughs out loud, using the hand that’s not cradling Liam to rub over his head. “No, Carl,” he says slowly, like he’s trying…well, like he’s trying to explain the intricacies of gay sex to his overly curious, prepubescent little brother, “when two dudes get together and stick their dicks in each other, they’re both equally gay, no matter who puts what where.” 

“So, does it matter?” Carl asks, genuinely curious enough that Mickey doesn’t even feel annoyed at the questions. “Like, which dick goes up which butt? Because the guys in the video seemed to care a lot about who was doing what.” 

Ian groans. “Okay, first of all, that’s porn. Sex doesn’t happen in real life like it does in porn. And that applies to straight porn, too, okay? _No one_ comes that fast.” 

“Really?” Carl looks surprised, but like he might actually be taking what Ian’s saying to heart. “Good to know.” 

It really is, too, Mickey thinks. He wishes someone had told him something like that before the first time he’d stuck his dick in another person, that’s for sure. 

“Second of all, the whole what goes where in gay sex thing…” he exhales for a second, like he’s trying to figure out how best to explain it. Mickey watches on curiously, because while he’s no fucking expert about having sex talks with kids so young they barely even know what their dicks are for yet, Ian seems to be doing a pretty good job so far handling Carl’s questions without making him feel ashamed or self-conscious about his curiosity. “It’s more like a preference. Like chocolate and strawberry,” Ian offers, “some people like one more than the other, some people like both. Y’know what I mean?”

Carl looks thoughtful. “Is chocolate a black dude’s dick?” 

Mickey can’t help it when he laughs at that. He’s pretty sure he even sees Ian quirk a smile at him, though out loud the redhead only deadpans, “No.” 

“I think I get it.” Carl finally says. “But hey, you didn’t tell me what that thing in the magazine was.” 

Ian shakes his head, chuckling lowly. “And I’m not gonna.” 

“Why?” Carl asks.

“Because I’m pretty sure answering that question would be enough to get me put on the sex offender’s registry.” He explains firmly. 

Carl looks annoyed, but doesn’t press it. Mickey’s not even sure if he wants to know now, what kind of weird ass porn the two yuppie gays look at in their spare time. Probably their sex life is so boring they have to spice it up with some pretty freaky shit. 

“Is Jimmy’s dad the only guy you’ve ever fucked?” 

Mickey goes stone still at Carl’s next question, pleading silently with Ian to not glance at him, to not give Carl even a chance to figure it out. Because while the kid might not care where his brother sticks his dick, he may be inclined to tell others who exactly he’s sticking it in, if he figures it out. And Mickey cannot risk that. 

He forces himself to not react at all to the question. And, thankfully, Ian doesn’t look at him when he answers it. “No.” 

“Who else?” The younger Gallagher inquires, and Mickey knows it’s an innocent thing, just like everything else has been, but Mickey still kind of wants to kill him right now. 

“Uh…” Ian thinks about it for a second. “Emily Choo’s in your class, right?” He finally says, and Mickey feels like he can start breathing again. 

“Yeah…?” Carl trails off, obviously confused. 

“Her brother.” 

“Really?” The younger boy lights up. 

“Mhm,” Ian just nods like it’s not that big of a deal. And, fuck, maybe who fucks who really _isn’t_. Maybe if it weren’t for his father and their house full of hate, Mickey wouldn’t give a shit about anyone finding out about the things he likes. 

“Can I tell her that?” 

“No.” Ian responds immediately and strongly. “No, Carl, you can’t tell people that other people are gay. Ever.”

Mickey’s unduly grateful that Ian’s taking the time to instill that lesson into his brother. 

“Why?” Carl asks, because he’s so young and fucking innocent that he really, truly, does not understand what can happen to gay people in this kind of world. 

“Because you don’t know who might know and who shouldn’t know.” Is what Ian tells him. “It’s like snitching.” 

“Oh.” Carl seems to understand that much, at least, and nods firmly. “Got it.” 

The two brothers talk for a little while longer after that, their conversation drifting away from sex and onto other, more boring, things. Like the classes Carl had failed last year and what kind of job he might get as soon as he’s old enough. It’s weird for Mickey to watch a family moment play out like that, because no one in his family – except maybe Mandy – has ever bothered to talk to him the way Ian’s talking to Carl. 

There’s a big difference, Mickey’s beginning to realize, between knowing that your own family is fucked up and seeing, up close and personal, what one that isn’t looks like. 

Liam’s still asleep on Ian’s chest when one of the foster parents – the white one, though Mickey can’t, for the life of him, remember which is which – sticks his head in and faux-politely insinuates that it’s time for Ian and Mickey to leave. 

They take the hint, though clearly Ian isn’t thrilled about it. Mickey has to put a hand on his arm and tug at him to get him to walk away from where he’d laid Liam down on the bed, still sleeping peacefully. 

“He’ll start crying as soon as he realizes you’re gone.” Carl says in a voice more subdued than Mickey’s heard from him yet. Ian glances over concernedly when he hears it, too. “He did earlier when Fiona left.”

Ian nods. “Just stay with him.” He instructs. “He’ll be fine once you guys come home.” 

“Why’d they take us?” Carl asks, out of nowhere and suddenly painfully desperate. “I mean, I know it’s not perfect, the way we live, but Fiona takes care of us. And you and Lip are better than Frank ever has been. Why’d they have to come in and just rip that all apart?” 

Mickey’s heart clenches at Carl’s questions, and he can’t help it, this time, when he looks at Ian. The other boy is just standing there, looking at his brother with a sad smile, like maybe he recognizes Carl’s words as ones he’s said himself in the past. 

“Because Fiona’s not our mom, and me and Lip aren’t grownups.” He tells Carl, voice firm even with the edge of defeat. “And sometimes the rules are really, _really_ fucking stupid.”

Mickey doesn’t think he’s ever agreed with a sentiment more in his entire life.

___________________________________________________

**Next Time:**

_By the time they stop they’re out of breath and laughing. It’s a common thing for the two of them, to run together like that – taking the odd moment to shove the other, playfight while darting around corners. Usually they’re running from someone, Mickey muses, but it’s almost more fun when they’re not._

___________________________________________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's read and left comments or kudos so far :) Love hearing what you guys think!
> 
> My goal is to update this story every Wednesday and Sunday, and the end chapter count will be somewhere in the neighborhood of 17-18.


	4. The Space We Steal for Each Other

**\--IV--**

_The Space We Steal for Each Other_

***

Ian doesn’t say much as they make their way back to the L. Mickey doesn’t press him to talk about it because that’s not the sort of shit he _does_. Though, right now, he kind of wishes that it were. 

They do sit next to each other this time, but Ian’s so stiff and rigid in his seat that Mickey hardly thinks it counts as anything. 

Just when the older boy has had about enough of Ian’s silence as he can take, and is seriously thinking about initiating some kind of dialogue between them, Ian surprises him by jumping out of his seat when the train stops somewhere miles away from the Southside. 

“C’mon,” Ian slaps his shoulder, motioning for Mickey to stand up. 

“What the fuck, Gallagher?” Mickey asks loudly. “We don’t live…dammit.” He trails off because Ian is nearly out the doors already. 

He rolls his eyes and gets to his feet, following the guy before he’s lost in some random neighborhood by himself having some sort of mental breakdown. 

“What the fuck, Ian?” He asks again, pushing at the other boy as the train takes off behind them. 

Ian, at least, has the presence of mind to lean in close to whisper his next words. “I wanna get drunk and I wanna fuck the shit out of you.” 

Mickey gulps, not able to deny how that declaration, Ian’s tone, and the gleam in his eyes, are all going straight to his dick. 

“Alright, dumbass, we coulda done that at home.” 

“Where?” Ian counters. “I wanna be alone with you.” 

“And where the fuck are we gonna do that around here?” Mickey glances over his shoulder, across the railing at whatever random city they’re in. “Fuck, do you even know where we _are_?” 

“Yeah, I do.” Ian smiles wickedly, and then takes off like a shot, forcing Mickey to run to catch up with him. 

By the time they stop they’re out of breath and laughing. It’s a common thing for the two of them, to run together like that – taking the odd moment to shove the other, playfight while darting around corners. Usually they’re running from someone, Mickey muses, but it’s almost more fun when they’re not. 

Once they finally stop, panting and grinning, Ian looks around, evaluating their surroundings. After a beat he nods, mostly to himself. “There’s a liquor store over there,” he says, directing Mickey’s attention to a nearby corner. “Think you can get a bottle of something?” 

Mickey eyes the place critically, and eventually shrugs. “Sure.” Then he looks back at Ian. “You ain’t comin’? I’m taking all the heat if something goes down?” Mostly he’s teasing, because it’s not like he’s afraid of stealing shit, but he really does want to know what the other boy’s plan is. 

Ian shakes his head. “You get alcohol, I’ll take care of the finding a place to fuck.” 

“And how are you gonna do that?” Mickey demands. 

Ian just grins widely. “Meet me at that pet store down the block in twenty minutes.” He instructs, and is off again before Mickey can get out a word edgewise. 

“Stupid, fucking crazy-ass mother fucker.” He mutters under his breath, watching until Ian disappears around the block before making his way to the liquor store. 

This neighborhood, smack dap in some offshoot of Chicago Mickey’s never seen before, isn’t anything like the Northside they’d just been in, nor is it the full-on slum of their hometown Southside, either. Rather, it’s some weird clash of something in the middle, with signs for an urban shopping center a few blocks away but also some obvious crackheads sleeping in an abandoned lot next to the liquor store. He wonders if this was a high-class city that had gone downhill, or if it’s a place that’s always been a dump but that some people are, for whatever reason, trying to clean up. 

He figures it doesn’t really matter either way. He and Ian aren’t going to be here for long, and once they return to the familiar squalor of their own shithole neighborhood, they’ll probably never see this place again. 

It doesn’t take Mickey more than five minutes to swipe a bottle of tequila off the shelf once he gets inside the store (no cameras, one guy behind the counter reading a porno, three other customers). He even grabs a fifth of vodka, too, figuring that he’ll be nice and offer Ian some options, since he’s seen the guy enjoy both. He gets out of the store without raising a single eyebrow, and calmly heads back down the block. 

He waits in front of the pet store as instructed, figuring that Ian’s errand will take longer than his. Which it does, by more than a little. Mickey doesn’t have a watch on him, because he hasn’t stolen one lately, but he’s pretty damn sure it takes more than twenty minutes for Ian to finally show up again. 

“The fuck, man?” He greets, settling only slightly at the way Ian’s grinning. “Where the fuck’ve you been?”

“Had to wait until the guy at the desk took a leak,” Ian explains, though that doesn’t actually explain a damn thing. “took longer than I thought it would.” 

“The fuck?” 

But Ian just grins at him, and pulls at his sleeve until Mickey’s forced to follow him down the sidewalk. It takes until they’re right in front of the hotel for Mickey to figure out what’s going on. “Hey, hell no, man.” He stops walking and holds his hands up. “We are not getting a fucking hotel room.” 

Ian turns towards him and crosses his arms over his chest, jutting his chin out stubbornly. “Why the fuck not?” 

“Money, for one.” Mickey gestures at the semi-decent looking place in front of them. “What’s that gonna be, like fifty bucks a night? You got fifty bucks? ‘Cause I don’t got fifty bucks.” 

Ian just keeps smiling. “It’s taken care of.” 

“Oh, it’s taken care of,” Mickey exclaims, and then snorts when Ian doesn’t back down. “We just gonna walk in there, say, ‘hey, we’re here to fuck’?” 

“No one gives a shit why we’re here.” Ian rolls his eyes. “I mean, you can wait outside if it really bugs you, sneak in the back after I get the key.” 

“You callin’ me a pussy?” Mickey steps a little closer, threatening. Ian doesn’t so much as flinch, and as much as that pisses Mickey off, it also gets him hard. It’s one of those things that’s always made Ian different, _better_ than everyone else – he’s not afraid of Mickey. 

“You’re actin’ like one.” The redhead responds simply. 

Mickey charges at him without much thought, grabbing the front of his shirt in both hands. Ian must have expected it, because he only stumbles back a few steps before pushing forward, though with no corresponding intention of starting a fight. Instead, he reaches down, one hand firmly on Mickey’s hip, the other sneaking in between them and resting low on his stomach, almost his cock. He curls his fingers, and Mickey can’t help it when he inhales sharply. 

Ian’s all wide, knowing smiles when Mickey looks up again. There’s also something in his eyes, something hard and unwavering that gets Mickey’s breath coming out shorter and faster almost as soon as he sees it. Fuck, that’s the look Ian gets when he wants to _play_. 

“You fuckin’ with me, man?” He asks, and he doesn’t even know what he means, not really. Just that his words come out shakier than he would have liked and Ian’s expression softens all of a sudden. 

“No.” The other boy says firmly, his grip on Mickey’s hip tightening. “I’m not. I wouldn’t.” Mickey nods a few times, feeling lightheaded. “You’re gonna come inside with me.” Ian tells him, and though technically it could be a question, Mickey’s pretty sure that it’s not. “You don’t have to say anything, and I swear nobody’s gonna care. Then we’re gonna get a room and fuck any damn way we want to.” 

Mickey closes his eyes and inhales deeply. They’re still pressed together, and all he can smell is Ian – that musky-yet-clean scent that he loves so much. It seems to erase everything else. “Okay.” He agrees, opening his eyes and meeting the solid green that’s been slowly unraveling him for years now. “Okay.” 

***

Ian’s right. Then again, Ian usually fucking is. 

No one gives a shit that they walk in together, go up to the counter together, ask for a room to share together. 

The guy behind the computer does, however, seem to care about how they’re paying for said room. Ian doesn’t waver as he leans casually against the counter and says, “Paid in advance. Name’s under Tony Markovich.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up, because seriously – what the fuck? He’s smart enough to not say anything, though, and after a few seconds of muted clicking from the other side of the counter, the guy hands them a room key and a printed receipt. “Sign here.” Ian scribbles illegibly on the line. “Enjoy your stay.” 

It’s not until they’re in the elevator that Mickey turns towards the other boy, hands on his hips. “What the fuck was that, _Tony Markovich_?” 

Ian’s not looking at him, staring straight ahead with so much determination it’s like he thinks he might get a prize for it, but he can’t seem to stop grinning, either. “Something Frank used to do, used to get us to do.” He explains, reminding Mickey starkly that none of the Gallaghers are as innocent as their dedication to each other might lead people to believe. “Sneak behind the counter, get into the appointments, and change the name and date. Boom. Alex Maloney’s prepaid one-night stay next month becomes our free one-night stay right now.”

“It can’t be that easy.” Mickey argues. Because it sounds way too good to be true. 

“Eh, it wouldn’t’a been at a bigger place, or a chain, but these people haven’t updated their computers in a decade. Lip taught me how to hack into them when I was, like, ten.” Ian shrugs. “It actually is pretty easy.” 

Mickey decides to just take him at his word. This, after all, is not the kind of crime that the Milkovich’s are known for, and therefore not something Mickey has any firsthand experience with at all. “Who’s Tony Markovich?” 

“A cop Fiona used to fuck.” 

“You used a _cop’s_ name?” Mickey exclaims, right as the elevator doors open. Luckily, there’s no one waiting on the other side. 

Ian shrugs. “Who’s gonna accuse a cop of stealing someone else’s paid-for room at a shitty hotel twenty miles away from where he lives?” 

Mickey has to concede that that’s actually not a terrible point. But still. “You coulda just used a fake name.” 

“Alright, next time.” Ian laughs, pushing at him playfully. “Next time I promise I will.” 

Then they’re in front of the room that’s going to be theirs for the night, and Mickey forgets all about bitching at Ian.

***

Mickey tosses his jacket, and the two bottles of liquor he’d stolen, on the table as Ian’s putting the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door handle and then firmly shutting it behind him, closing them off from the rest of the outside world. 

“Whaddya wanna do first then, eh?” Mickey quirks an eyebrow. He has a feeling he already knows the answer. 

Ian proves his right less than a heartbeat later, pressing into Mickey’s personal space until their bodies are flush, then he moves them backwards until Mickey’s knees hit the edge of the bed and he’s forced to sit down. 

His heart’s beating too quick in his chest and his dick is growing hard in his jeans, just from that. It’s been a few days since the last time they’d fucked, and Mickey hadn’t realized until right now how much of a habit that had become; how he’s grown to depend on the feel of Ian fucking Gallagher’s dick up his ass at least once a day. 

“Wanna fuck you.” Ian says, somewhat redundantly, and then pulls his shirt up and over the back of his head without any farther ado. 

Mickey grins wickedly. “Then fucking get on me, firecrotch.” 

***

The headboard is thin, and nailed to the wall behind the mattress, making it nearly impossible for Mickey to get a decent grip on it as Ian pounds into him from behind. He growls out his frustration the third time his hands slip and causes his body to wretch forward, inadvertently pulling his ass away from Ian’s cock. 

“Fucking shit,” he grumbles, “think they could spring for something worth a damn in this dump.”

He braces himself to grab at the cheap bit of laminated wood one more time, but Ian’s hand on the back of his neck stops him. “Here,” the other boy starts, and Mickey doesn’t understand what he’s asking for until he feels the tug on his hips. Ian moves him until he’s far enough away from the edge of the bed that he could angle the top half of his body down onto the pillows without hitting his head. Ian encourages the movement with a hand in-between his shoulder blades. 

“Fuck,” Mickey hisses, pulling away slightly. The position Ian is trying to put him in…it’s not something they’ve ever done before. Not something _Mickey_ has ever done before. They fuck doggy style a lot, more than anything else, but never quite like this. Ian wants him ass up and on fucking display, and Mickey’s not sure he’s okay with that, even if every single part of his body other than his brain seems to be _begging_ for it. “Don’t.”

“Don’t?” Ian repeats, voice lust-rough and completely disbelieving. “Don’t wanna get fucked like that? Don’t want my dick so far up your ass you’re fucking screaming?” Ian asks, and he’d sound casual if not for the drawl of sex and domination. Mickey shudders. “C’mon,” the redhead continues to prod, sucking at a spot on the older boy’s shoulder hard enough to bruise. “You’ll fucking love it, Mick. Trust me.” 

And fuck everything he’s ever thought, known, or believed, because Mickey well and truly _does_ trust Ian. So much that it scares him. Makes him want. 

God, so many things about this boy are making him want. 

So he does what Ian asks, collapsing onto the mattress until his ass is pivoted up. His dick twitches just being like this, so hard that for one fleetingly horrifying moment he thinks he’s going to come. “Fuck, shit, dammit Gallagher.” He pants instead, trying to steady his breathing. “Fuck, Ian, c’mon.” 

And Mickey doesn’t know if it’s the desperate pitch in his voice or the fact that he’d used the boy’s given name, but Ian slams back into him a second later so goddamn hard and brutal and _perfect_ that Mickey’s only coherent thought is, _Fuck, I love you_.

***

“I have to go back to that place tomorrow.” Ian says later, while the two of them are laying side-by-side staring at the ceiling. Mickey’s still trying to catch his breath but Ian, the machoistic fitness buff that he is, seems unfazed by the activity they’d been engaging in less than five minutes ago. 

“Yeah.” Is all Mickey can think to say. Because it’s true, and no amount of fucking or running is going to change that. Still, if the Milkovich’s are good at anything, it’s drowning their sorrows. So Mickey climbs out of the bed on shaky legs, cringing a little bit at the feeling of come drying on his inner thighs, and pads across the room stark naked to grab the bottles of liquor he’d stolen earlier. He turns around and holds them both up for Ian to see. “Dealer’s choice.” 

The redhead’s grin isn’t as bright as it usually is but, given the circumstances, Mickey still counts it as a win. A few minutes later, Mickey finds himself back on the bed, leaning against the shitty fake headboard, and sipping pathetically cheap vodka as Ian hogs the bottle of tequila. Oddly, Mickey can’t find it in himself to mind. 

They sit in companionable silence for a while before the alcohol starts to get to the younger boy, making him loose-lipped. “Y’know, Frank’s gonna fuck it up.” 

Mickey’s not sure what he’d been expecting Ian to start blabbering about in this state, but he’s not really surprised at the words that come out. They’re true, anyway. “Yeah?” He asks, only a little tipsy himself. “Doesn’t he always?” 

Ian snorts, and takes another long drink out of the bottle. Mickey follows the movements of his throat with closer attention than he’d usually let himself, but, hell, what’s the point of stealing a hotel room in some city miles away from where they live if he can’t allow himself a little more freedom than normal? 

Then again, maybe that’s just Ian. Maybe being with Ian like this is all he needs to stop feeling so fucking trapped.

“Yeah, he always fucking does,” the other boy’s saying, and Mickey has to force himself to remember that they’d been talking about something. “I shoulda let you kill him before.” 

Mickey sighs heavily. “You don’t mean that.”

“Like fuck I don’t.” Ian’s words come out strong, and with enough conviction that the older boy might be forced to believe him if it weren’t for that haze of longing and sadness in his eyes. Fuck, he hates seeing that look on Ian. “Did I ever tell you he’s not even my real dad?” 

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up. “What?” 

“Yeah.” Ian laughs, though it’s not with any sort of humor. “Me an’ Lip got DNA tests done a few years ago. There was this thing with Liam…” he waves a hand vaguely, and Mickey might be a little drunker than he’d initially thought, because he’s kind of having a hard time following the other boy’s words. “Liam is Frank’s fucking kid. Somehow. I don’t even _get_ that, but me? I only exist because our mom did LSD and fucked Frank’s brother.” 

Mickey blinks a couple times. “Shit, man.” He offers. Ian just snorts. “You ever meet the guy?” Which he realizes is probably a stupid question almost as soon as he says it, because Frank’s brother would be Ian’s uncle, so of course he’s probably fucking met him. 

Then again, the Gallaghers are a pretty fucked up clan, even by Southside standards, and Ian’s next words convey clearly that his question hadn’t been all that stupid after all. 

“Lip made us track him down, right after we found out.” Ian says, using his thumb nail to scratch at the label on the bottle of tequila, a kind of nervous tick Mickey’s never seen from him before. “He’s got a big house on the Northside. Fuck, he’s got a wife and other kids. Lip wanted me to try and get money outta him, but I couldn’t, y’know? Couldn’t open up that can of shit and let him be, _want_ him to be, a part of my life. As fucked up as it is…my family’s my family. I mean, fuck Frank,” he adds, a little more coldly, “but I ain’t tradin’ them in for some upgraded model or something, man. Not who I am.” 

Mickey actually gets that, relates to the entire drunken spiel, because as different as they are, he and Ian are the same in a lot of ways, too. Ways that grow like roots and weeds from being raised on the Southside of Chicago. Deeper ways, that stem from growing up _gay_ on the Southside and knowing that most of your life, from one moment to the next, isn’t about much more than survival. 

This is more, though. This hotel room and Ian, stolen bottles of liquor, and a few hours where nothing else in the world can hurt them. This is the kind of shit Mickey had never even thought to fantasize about until Ian fucking Gallagher had paraded into his life with a crowbar and then, later, a stubborn fucking grin that just wouldn’t go away, no matter how hard Mickey tried. 

“I can still kill him,” he hears himself offering, because he’s not sure how normal people declare their feelings, but this is how Southsiders do it. “Frank,” he elaborates unnecessarily, as Ian’s gaze is on him now, sharp and a little too intrigued. “if you want.” 

It takes a few seconds, but eventually the other boy’s expression softens and he reaches over, squeezes Mickey’s thigh tightly. “Thanks,” he breathes, “but I think that would just create more problems.” He shakes his head. “Plus, you’d definitely get charged as an adult, and I don’t wanna have to visit you in prison for the next twenty years.” 

“Bitch, please,” Mickey scoffs, ignoring the way his heart does a little flutter at Ian’s concern, as hypothetical as it is. “you’re assuming I’d get caught. I don’t fucking get caught.” 

“You got caught the last time you tried to kill him.” Ian points out, eyebrow raised. 

And he doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol or the serenity of having a space all to themselves for once, but Mickey finds himself snorting at that, and blurting, “I did that on purpose, you fucking idiot.” 

Ian’s silent for a while, so long that Mickey folds first and glances over at him. The expression the redhead’s sporting isn’t anywhere close to the shock and awe Mickey had been expecting. Rather, his face has gone soft and a small, genuine smile has taken up residence there. “Yeah.” He says easily, almost tenderly. “I know.” 

“The fuck you mean you know?” Mickey bristles out of habit, and because he’d been pretty damn sure that had been a fucking secret. 

Ian just rolls his eyes. “You punched a cop in the face, and you didn’t have a gun on you.” The other boy says plaintively. “And Frank never turned up dead, so I kinda assumed you _chose_ not to go through with it. I know you’d never pussy out without a damn good reason. Figured it mighta had something to do with me.” 

Mickey takes a deep, shaky breath, suddenly feeling far too exposed, almost see-through under Ian’s knowing gaze. “Don’t let it go to your head, firecrotch.” He hears himself saying. “Just figured Frank wasn’t worth the murder rap, y’know?” 

“Sure,” Ian agrees, clearly not believing him at all. 

“I mean it.” He presses. “It wasn’t about you.” 

Ian laughs with his whole body, tilting his head back with the force of it and fuck, Mickey doesn’t even care if the bastard is laughing at him, so long as something has got him easy-going and free again. 

“Fuck you, man.” He says, but it’s with a low, fond chuckle and an almost playful eyeroll. 

Looking back on it later, Mickey probably should have figured out that that was the day he’d gone and gotten well and truly whipped by the redheaded asshole. 

***

They spend the rest of the night fucking and drinking, until they pass out together on the bed, too damn out of it to give a shit about whose body parts end up where. 

That’s what Mickey tells himself later, anyway. Later, when he wakes up in the middle of the night with sleep-crusted eyes and a parched dry throat, to find that Ian’s wormed his way behind him on the bed, those damn octopus limps wrapped around him, pressed up against his back and clinging like he never wants to let go. 

And Mickey tells himself he’s still too fucking drunk, that’s why he doesn’t move, why he pushes his body into Ian’s and revels in the comfort of it. Why Ian’s breath on the back of his neck, the weight of his arm around his waist, and the way their fingers have stayed intertwined this whole time, leave his stomach feeling woozy and his heart beating too fast. It’s just the fucking alcohol. Maybe a little bit the sex, too, but that’s it. 

It sure as shit isn’t falling in love. 

Not a goddamn chance in hell.

___________________________________________________

**Next Time:**

_“I woke up one morning and you and Fiona were in the kitchen, trying to make breakfast out of leftover Chinese takeout and Jell-O shots,” Frank continues, head pressed back against the wall now, eyes closed. Ian takes a breath and sits back down on the crate. He’d wanted answers, he thinks dully, and now the punishment for his curiosity is that he has to listen to them._

___________________________________________________


	5. Rage, Rage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Hump Day!

**\--V--**

_Rage, Rage_

***  
***

Ian hates parting with Mickey the next morning, but he knows there’d be absolutely no explaining his presence to anyone at Gunderson House, never mind that eventually someone in Mickey’s own family – probably only Mandy, but still – is going to notice that he’s missing. So they split up after getting off the L, way too early the next morning, and Ian just barely manages to sneak back into the Home – nodding politely at the guard that Lip had, somehow or another, managed to bribe into keeping his mouth shut – in time to settle down next to his brother for morning rollcall. 

“Carl and Liam are fine,” is the first thing he says, once the chatter of a hundred other people talking all at once blocks out their voices. “their foster parents aren’t hurting them. They’re gay, though.”

“That offend you or something?” Lip asks, smirking knowingly until Ian flicks him off, then he just laughs. 

“They’re preppy and douchey and have weird as shit porn.” Ian elaborates. “But Carl finally understands how gay sex works, so I guess there’s that.” 

Lip nods a few times, looking thoughtful. “You and your boyfriend explain that to him?” 

“Don’t call him that.” Ian says first, purely out of instinct. Because as much as he daydreams about Mickey coming out and declaring their relationship publicly, he knows that doing so would basically be signing both of their death certificates. “And no, Mickey just sat there and listened while Carl asked me all sorts of shit about Ned and who puts their dick in who’s butt.” 

“Hmm,” Lip’s eyebrows crease like he’s thinking about something intently, but Ian knows his brother well enough that he can read the sarcasm in the gesture. “and who does put what up where when you and Junior wannabe-Tony-Soprano get it on?” 

Ian deadpan glares and tosses his rock-hard biscuit at Lip’s forehead, chuckling a little when it bounces off and lands in his drink. 

Lip, the fucking asshole, just picks it out without blinking and takes a bite. “Curious minds wanna know.” He continues. “And I assume, since all’s well with the foster gays, that you two enjoyed a nice romantic evening to yourselves, yeah? What was that, like giggling in the moonlight and braiding each other’s hair?”

“You’re a fucking asshole.” He says, but can’t help it that he’s smiling a little. Lip’s never really approved of his relationship with Mickey – more like kind of just accepted it as something that was happening and would probably stop happening, sooner or later – but as the years wore on, and Ian kept fucking the other boy, his brother had grown to taking more of an intertest. 

Or maybe it’s just because he’s fucking Mandy now, and the four of them are playing a constant game of Russian Roulette with Mickey’s in-the-closet status. Ian trusts his brother, and thinks that Mickey might even trust him, too, if he knew how long Lip’s been keeping his secret, but he’s always felt bad hiding the truth from Mandy, and he wonders if Lip’s starting to feel that now, too. 

“Don’t get too caught up over there, lover boy.” Lip warns, when he sees what must be the distant expression on Ian’s face. “We got bigger shit to deal with than your romantic entanglements, alright?” 

“Yeah,” Ian knows his brother’s right, and shakes his head to clear it. “How’s Frank doing in rehab? Any chance at all this’ll work out so Fiona can get us back at the house?” 

“Don’t know.” Lip says shortly. “She’s going to DCFS later today to check on the paperwork and shit. We’re meeting up with her after that.” 

“Does she know that?” Ian asks redundantly, because he already knows the answer. 

“Nope.” Lip just grins, all cocky and sure, and Ian remembers why he loves his big brother, even when he’s being an asshole. 

***

“We can’t kill him,” Lip is tugging at his arm, and he sounds almost desperate, way outside the norm for him, but Ian figures his own collected fury isn’t so run of the mill, either. “Especially not right now, man. They’ll trace it right back to us.” 

“I don’t wanna kill him.” Ian says calmly. All he can hear are Fiona’s words on a loop in his head. 

_Frank made the call._

_Frank reported us to DCFS._

_This is all because of Frank._

_Frank made the call._

“Then what’s with the murder march?” Lip demands. 

“I’m gonna find him, and I’m gonna beat the shit out of him.” He tells Lip coolly. “Then Fiona can get custody and we can all go back to pretending his drunk piece of shit ass doesn’t exist. That okay with you?” 

Lip’s still jogging half-heartedly at his side. “It sounds great, except the part where Frank calls the fucking cops on you-”

“Yeah, that’s apparently what he fucking does now, isn’t it?” Ian spits bitterly. 

“And you wind up in juvie, and Frank plays it to his benefit, because you’ll know he’ll find a way, and Fiona won’t be able to get us back.” Lip’s words make sense, Ian knows that much, he just doesn’t _care_. “C’mon, man, slow the fuck up and calm down.” 

“No.” Ian crosses the street at a jog, leaving Lip in his wake. 

***  
***

The door to the Kash-N-Grab bangs open loudly, startling Mickey out of the nap he’d been taking behind the counter. “Ay, what the fuck?” He demands, rubbing at one eye with the heel of his palm before he even registers who had just blown in. 

“Is Ian here?” Lip demands, already halfway down one of the aisles, craning his neck desperately. When he comes up empty, he heads back to the counter, where a still-confused Mickey is staring blankly. “Ian.” The older Gallagher presses. “Have you seen him today? In the past couple hours?” 

“No.” Lip’s desperation startles an honest response out of him. “Fucking _why_?” 

“Because he’s gotta pretty one-track mind when he’s obsessed with something,” the other boy tosses the words out frantically, running a hand through his hair for emphasis. Mickey doesn’t mention how very much he can relate to Lip’s annoyance with Ian’s stubbornness. “and I’d rather not see him wind up in fucking prison, alright?” 

“Whoa,” that, at least, catches Mickey’s attention and holds it. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

Lip takes a deep breath and seems to debate for a moment whether or not he should confide in Mickey about whatever the fuck is going on, but eventually he relents – either because he’s too worked up to see the pitfalls, or because Mickey’s own expression is genuinely concerned enough that Lip can tell just by looking that he can trust him with this. 

“We found out who made the call to Family Services.” He says shortly. “It was fucking Frank.” 

“Sonnova bitch.” Mickey breathes. “That’s cold, man. Even for him.” 

Lip’s laugh sounds nearly hysterical. “And now Ian’s on a one-man quest to pound the shit out of him, which, any other day, I’d fully support the endeavor, but we’ve gotta go to court, like, _soon_ and if Frank rats him out, and he gets locked up, we’re _all_ fucking screwed.” 

Mickey takes a moment to be pissed that Ian hadn’t come to him with all this, but he pushes that aside pretty fast, knowing that sometimes family shit is just too fucked up to see around. 

“Alright, alright.” Mickey says, thinking it through. “We should split up. Hit all the places Frank normally crawls off to.” He’s coming out from behind the counter, shrugging off his security jacket and grabbing the keys to the store as he goes. “And you should go to my house and get Mandy, too. She might be able to help.” 

Lip seems a little surprised with how quickly Mickey springs into action, but it only lasts for a second, and after the doors are locked behind them and they’re heading down the street together, he glances over just in time to see the doucheist of the Gallaghers smirking at him almost knowingly. 

“What the fuck you lookin’ at?” He snaps, trying to cover up his own fear that this little display of blatant concern has somehow tipped the other boy off about Mickey’s feelings towards his brother. Everyone’s always saying that the dude’s a fucking genius or something, maybe Mickey should have played it a little cooler. 

But Lip just shakes his head and looks away. “Nothing.” He says, and Mickey might almost believe that he’s got him fooled, if it weren’t for that knowing, superior look in his eye. It’s so similar to the one Ian gets from time to time that Mickey can’t help but scowl at him. But the fact that it reminds him of Ian is also probably the only reason he doesn’t throw a punch. 

***  
***

Ian’s not sure how it happens, but after he tracks down Frank and throws one punch, as hard as he can, he finds himself standing above his drunken excuse for a father, who had hit the ground promptly with the force of Ian’s swing, laughing loudly. 

“What the fuck, Frank?” He screams, knowing that no one around here is going to give a shit about random yelling coming from some alley, even this early in the evening. There’d have to be gunshots for anybody to even quirk an eyebrow and Ian, well aware of his own slipping self-control, had known better than to bring a gun with him on this little excursion.

“My son just cold-clocked me, can you believe that?” Frank gasps out, cradling the side of his face. “Ungrateful, spoiled little piece of degenerative _shit_.” 

“No one else can hear you, Frank.” Ian points out, still hovering above him. He’s not laughing anymore, but he still feels kind of hysterical. 

Frank lifts his head just enough to look around. “Oh,” he gets his hands on the ground, trying to drunkenly lever himself to his feet. Ian watches without helping, and delights in the fact that it takes him half a dozen tries to find his footing. “Well, in that case.” 

Ian doesn’t expect drunk-Frank to move as fast as he does, which is a mistake on his part because he’s seen what his father is capable of when he’s desperate, no matter how strung out he is. The fist doesn’t connect nearly as hard as Ian’s had, and he’s pretty sure it’s only dumb luck that Frank manages to hit his face at all. He stumbles slightly, but doesn’t fall. He can feel the split in his lip and tongues it absently, almost relishing the burn. 

He spits off to the side when Frank stumble-walks over to a nearby dumpster, apparently no interest in hitting him again. “That didn’t hurt nearly as much as the time you elbowed me in the face.” He says bluntly, moving closer as his father collapses onto the ground again, this time leaning his back against the wall. 

“I’m sure you deserved it then, too, you miserable…” but Frank trails off, blinking slowly, and Ian feels the rage slowly drain out of him. Shit, this is just so pathetic. _Frank_ is so fucking pathetic. 

Ian tips his head back and exhales loudly. Then he walks closer to Frank, pulls a milk crate over, and sits parallel to the man who hadn’t contributed a damn thing to his existence. Literally. 

“You always knew I wasn’t yours, didn’t you?” He doesn’t know what makes him ask the question, why it feels so important in this moment, but it does. 

Fiona’s desperate and guilty and trying so hard to get them all back where they belong, his younger siblings are trapped in places they hate, Lip’s been forced into encouraging nonviolent conflict resolution, he loves Mickey so much that it hurts to breathe sometimes, living on the Southside of Chicago feels like a death sentence more often than anything should, and Frank’s always hated him more than his brothers and sisters. 

Ian can’t do a damn thing about most of that, but he can damn fucking well get the answers he’s wanted for years now. 

“Before me and Lip got those tests done,” he presses, when Frank just looks up at him bleary-eyed and pissed. “before anyone knew for sure, you always suspected, right? I mean I look _just like_ him. And you musta known him and Monica were close, or that he wanted to fuck her, or whatever, right? You’ve never actually hit any of us, except me. You hate me because I’m not yours. And you hate me more because the love of your life fucked your brother and you got a kid out of it.” 

Frank doesn’t say anything. Ian huffs a short, angry laugh and jumps up. He kicks the dumpster next to where Frank’s sitting so hard that the older man actually startles, retreating from the noise and from Ian. 

“Kill me if you want to.” He spits, once he gets his bearings back. “Kill me right here.” He says it like a challenge, and Ian’s really fucking glad he hadn’t brought a gun with him now, because if he had a weapon that would make it fast and easy, if all he had to do was pull a trigger and bam, no more Frank in the world anymore, he’s not sure he wouldn’t do it. “Put an end to all your daddy issues once and for all.” 

“Fuck,” Ian hisses, walking away and then turning back, pacing the alley like a caged animal. “ _Fuck_.” He kicks the dumpster again. Frank doesn’t flinch. 

“I did know.” Frank’s words stop him this time, make him turn around and listen to the man who had tried and failed to raise him. “Not right away, not because of the red hair. Hell, Debs has that, too, and I know _she’s_ mine. No, no it was later, when you were…I don’t know. Younger than Carl. We were living in that apartment on Chestnut Road, a few blocks away from Cousin Myrtle, you remember that?” 

Ian actually does. He couldn’t have been more than eight or nine. “We were squatting in that apartment.” He feels the need to point out. “With a couple crackheads and one guy who kept trying to get me and Lip high on paint fumes.” 

Frank chuckles fondly, like that’s some delightful childhood memory that Ian’s held onto over the years. The reality is he still hates the smell of fresh paint, usually gags and gets a godawful headache if he’s anywhere near it. Lip does, too. 

“I woke up one morning and you and Fiona were in the kitchen, trying to make breakfast out of leftover Chinese takeout and Jell-O shots,” Frank continues, head pressed back against the wall now, eyes closed. Ian takes a breath and sits back down on the crate. He’d wanted answers, he thinks dully, and now the punishment for his curiosity is that he has to listen to them. “and Lip…Lip was going around to all the people passed out in the living room and taking their money,” he smiles proudly, “smart kid, even back then. And I was sitting at the table drinking this terrible, burned coffee, and you came up to me. God, I musta looked like shit, don’t remember much about the month before that – Myrtle always could show us a good time – but you came up to me with this look, like you wanted to make it better.” He laughs quietly, but it sounds so real and _heartfelt_ that it almost makes Ian forget for a second what kind of man Frank really is. “You climbed up on a chair, leaned forward, and patted me on the cheek. And, the look on your face, the way you fucking _cared_. It was all so… _Clayton_. Same… same look, same cheek tap, same wide-eyed, innocent, doughboy expression, same freckles and teeth and fucking skin, all of it. Same fucking kid, just like when we were little. That’s when I knew.” 

Frank sniffs once, and finally opens his eyes, meets Ian’s with a startlingly unwavering stare. “That’s when I knew,” he says again. “if you have to drudge up the past, and I don’t see why it even matters, because I don’t see my brother over here claiming you as his own. Maybe you just lucked out, that your mother’s a whore when she’s high, because _Clayton_ never would have taught you the things I have. Never would have, _couldn’t_ have prepared you for the world the way Frank Gallaher did, so maybe you should be a little more appreciative that I didn’t toss your ass to the curb as soon as I figured it out, huh? Maybe you should fucking _thank_ me.” 

Ian snorts lightly, feeling drained. “Fiona woulda kicked your ass if you’d tried to, even back then.” He says confidently, because he knows his sister, and he knows what she’s capable of. What she’s _always_ been capable of. “And she’s gonna do it now, here, legally in court. She’s gonna nail you to the fucking wall and we’re all gonna watch it happen, because you might be a really good con artist, _dad_ , but you ain’t got nothin’ on the kids you raised.” 

He stands up, licks his lips, and spits at the ground near his father’s feet. “So fuck you, Frank.” He says coldly, knowing that this moment has somehow closed a chapter on his childhood. “Fuck you to hell and back, because I don’t owe you a goddamn thing.” 

***  
***

They search for hours before they finally give up and head back to the Gallagher house, all three of them, like some kind of single unit, unified by a common goal. 

“Okay,” Fiona says when they enter like that, together and wearing matching expressions of concern. “Lip lives here, Mandy I get. Who are you again?” 

She says this to Mickey, hands on her hips like she thinks whatever’s going on – because of course she can tell something fucking is – might be his fault. 

“My brother, Mickey.” Mandy answers for him, rolling her eyes when he ducks his head to glare at her. He can speak for himself, thank you very much. 

“You and Ian work together, right?” Fiona asks, defenses lowering some as clarity dawns.

“Yeah.” He nods simply. Then, at her unwavering stare, he adds reluctantly, “We hangout.” He clears his throat, thinks those words might be too telling if she knows Ian’s gay. “We’re friends.” 

“Right,” the older girl says slowly, eyes darting between him, Mandy, and her brother. “Someone wanna tell me what’s going on?” 

A guy appears from the kitchen then, and Mickey has a brief moment to consider that he doesn’t _look_ much like an experienced car thief with multiple identities to his name, before he starts talking. “Lip, aren’t you and Ian supposed to back at that group home like,” he glances at his watch, “nowish?” 

Lip runs a tired hand over his face. “We can’t find Ian.” 

Fiona’s eyebrows shoot up at that, immediately on high alert. “What the fuck do you mean you can’t _find_ Ian?” 

“He means the guy went on a one-man rampage after he found out what your good for nothing father did,” Mickey bites, “and we’ve been all over this fucking city trying to find him before _he_ finds Frank and beats him half to death, but so far, we ain’t had much luck.” It comes out sarcastic and nervous, a little more of the latter than he’d like to admit, but the words themselves distract Fiona and Jimmy – who _must_ know Ian’s gay, since the geriatric prick the redhead’s been fucking is apparently his father – from thinking too hard on what that implies. 

Mandy gives him an odd look, but he figures he can deal with that later. 

“Fuck,” Fiona hisses, “I knew I shouldn’t’ve told you guys about that.” 

“We had a right to know.” Lip immediately defends. Then he sighs tiredly. “But I didn’t think Ian would react by running off to try and kill Frank, so maybe you’ve got a point.” 

“Did he actually say he wanted to kill him?” It’s Jimmy that asks, and Mickey wonders if attention to detail is something that makes him a good criminal. Or _had_ made him a good criminal, since apparently he doesn’t play that game anymore. 

“No, he specifically said he didn’t.” Lip explains. “But I don’t know that beating the shit out of him would actually be better at this point.” 

“Probably not.” Mandy muses. “I mean, we all know what Frank’s gonna do with that,” she expands, when the adults glance at her, “might be better to just…” she makes a swiping motion against her throat, implying the rest without words. 

Fiona doesn’t look as pissed as Mickey thinks anyone else would, at the implication their father would be better use to everyone dead. Probably because it’s true, and they’ve all thought about it more than once. That’s something he and Ian have in common, anyway. 

“Look, either way, we’ve got to find him.” Fiona’s saying, with a firm determination that Mickey can’t even tell for sure if she’s faking. “We’ll check the bars, alleys, homeless shelters, that crack house on Second-”

“Nah, we’ve been to all of those,” Lip cuts her off. “Twice. No Frank, no Ian.” 

“Then we’ll start calling hospitals,” she trudges on, “police stations, morgues. C’mon, Lip, you know the drill.” 

“What if Ian couldn’t find Frank either and just went back to the group home?” Jimmy suggests, and every single person in the room, including Mickey, perks up. 

Fiona leans over and kisses her boyfriend soundly. “You’re a fucking genius.” 

He smiles at that, a little dopily, and Mickey thinks it’s kind of sickening to see a grown man so moony eyed over someone like that, but also not nearly as pathetic as he’s always built it up to be in his head, either. He looks like he’s in love. It’s kind of gross, and Mickey sort of wants to gag, but it’s not awful. It doesn’t make him think less of the guy, anyway. 

“Hey, you should pretend to be from social services.” Lip is saying this to Fiona, trailing after her into the kitchen as she starts flipping through a phonebook, looking for the number to call for Gunderson House. “Say you’re our caseworker and that me and Ian won’t be back tonight because of…I dunno. Home interviews or something. And if Ian’s already there we have to come get him.”

Fiona points at him, face lighting up. “Our caseworker likes me now, too, she might even cover for me if they call her.” 

It ends up being a three-minute conversation that’s a complete waste of time, except now Lip and Ian won’t get sent to juvie for breaking curfew at that place. Whether or not Ian will end up there for assaulting Frank is still up in the air, because Gunderson House hasn’t heard from him since this morning. 

“Fuck.” Fiona breathes when she hangs up, voice a little rough from the octave she’d been using to disguise herself on the phone. “Now what?”

___________________________________________________

**Next Time:**

_“Look, the dude is…whatever, alright?” Lip scratches his nose, clearly uncomfortable. “He was helpful when I thought you were out murdering our dad, and he seemed to, I dunno. To give a shit. Whatever you two have, and I ain’t asking for details or anything, but it seems to be working.”_

___________________________________________________


	6. Under the L

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sunday Funday!

**\--VI--**

_Under the L_

***  
***

Ian knows Lip will still be looking for him. That he might have even caved by now and told Fiona what was going on, too. What he hadn’t expected, when he’d walked into the house that evening, were the other voices coming from the kitchen. 

He catches the tail end of Fiona on the phone, pretending to be a social worker and excusing his and Lip’s absences from the home tonight. He’s about to make his presence known when he hears his sister breathe out heavily. “Fuck. Now what?” 

It stops him in his tracks when the voice that responds is fucking _Mickey’s_. “Me and him,” he’s probably gesturing to Lip or Jimmy, Ian can’t see yet, “go back out and keep looking. You guys call hospitals and start getting an alibi worked out in case Frank turns up dead. Something good, too. Bribe someone _not_ in this family into saying they were with Ian all night. Mandy, you’ve got dad’s list, right?” 

“I feel like you’ve done this a few times.” Jimmy says with a sardonic lilt in his tone. Ian doesn’t have to see them to know that Mickey’s flicking him off. 

“You wanna help or you wanna just stand there lookin’ stupid?” Mickey sounds aggressive as ever, but Ian can read the worry in his voice, too. It makes something in his gut kick into overdrive, and he can’t help it when he grins. 

That’s how Fiona finds him: standing in the middle of the living room, grinning stupidly around his split lip and bruised jaw, blood splatter on his shirt from where he’d punched Frank, with his backpack flung casually over one shoulder like he’d just strolled in after school. 

She stops cold when she sees him, blinking disbelievingly. She doesn’t stay frozen for more than a second. “Ian, _what the fuck_?” She yells, hands up near her head like she does sometimes when she’s truly exasperated. 

“I can explain.” He offers dumbly, because that’s what he always says – what all of them always say – when she catches them in any sort of compromising position. 

“Are you okay?” She asks, approaching him quickly and pulling him into a hug so tight he kind of chokes around it. “Did he do that?” She pulls back enough to thumb at his lip, and Ian can’t help the way he smiles fondly. Fiona’s been looking after them her whole damn life, any judge will be able to see how much she cares about them. 

“Yeah,” he admits easily. “but I hit him first. And harder.” 

She takes a deep breath and then pulls him forward by the scruff of his neck, planting a wet kiss on his forehead. “Good.” 

“Did you kill him?” Lip asks coldly, because as soon as Fiona moves away from him he can see that the rest of them are standing there now, too, watching him. Mickey and Mandy are wearing almost identical expressions of concern, and Jimmy just looks mildly intrigued. His brother, on the other hand, is openly pissed. Ian finds himself responding to that first. 

“No, I didn’t kill him.” He says coldly, glaring. “We talked.” 

“Oh, you talked.” Lip laughs sarcastically, angry more than amused. “You talked to Frank and what, you guys are all cool now? Not gonna run off again, make all of us spend a whole day trying to find you?” 

“Hey, I didn’t ask you to do that.” Ian snaps, dropping his bag on the ground and honing in on his brother, hating the superior pitch in his tone, the way he always has to be right, and the fucking best at every goddamn thing. “I told you I was gonna find Frank and then come back. _You’re_ the one who got everyone all worked up about nothing.” 

“Nothing?” Lip exclaims. “Well fucking excuse me for being concerned about your status as a convicted felon.” 

“Yeah, like you’ve never wanted him dead.” Ian retorts. “At least I had the balls to do something about it.” 

“Something fucking stupid.” Lip points out, not entirely unfairly, but Ian can’t really give him credit for that right now. All the peace he’d found after his talk with Frank evaporates as the desire to punch his older brother in the face eclipses everything else. 

“Hey now, guys,” Jimmy’s voice, purposely soothing, cuts through the moment of tension, but neither Ian nor Lip spare him a glance. They both know where this is going, and everyone else in the room is smart enough to not make a move until it comes to a head. 

“Fuck you.” Ian says calmly, and that’s all it takes. 

Lip swings at him widely, giving Ian plenty of room to duck under his arm and tackle him mid-body. _That’s_ when the others spring into action. It’s not thirty seconds of admittedly half-hearted blows between them before Mickey’s arms are around Ian’s shoulders and Jimmy’s firmly planted himself in front of Lip, blocking his view of his brother. 

“Chill the fuck out.” Mickey whispers in his ear, half-demand, half-plea. “C’mon, man, everything’s cool.” 

Ian stays tense until he sees Lip’s shoulders slouch, then his own follow suit. 

“Fucking christ you two.” Fiona’s spitting at them, breaking up the tension even more. “Does every goddamn argument have to end in a fistfight?” 

Ian and Lip look at each other, then back at their sister. They both shrug, almost in unison. “Yeah.”

“Pretty much.” 

“Come into the kitchen, all of you,” she demands after a few long seconds, when it becomes clear that neither brother has any interest in fighting now that the initial waves of fury have abated. Her tone leaves no room for arguments. “We’ll drink beer and settle down. Ian, find a different shirt.” 

Jimmy follows Fiona almost immediately, and then Mandy, after shooting a last concerned glance at Ian over her shoulder, ushers Lip in behind them. Soon, it’s just him and Mickey in the living room. 

“Fucking A, Gallagher,” he breathes, finally dropping his arms from around Ian’s chest but remining close to him. “You’re gonna kill me one’a these days, y’know that?” 

Ian smiles at the other boy, openly fondly. “I’m sorry Lip had you running around all day looking for me.” He says sincerely. “I woulda just asked you to come with me if I’d known he was gonna make such a big deal about it.” 

“Yeah,” Mickey bites his bottom lip and glances away for a second, a nervous gesture Ian’s seen on him more than a few times. “why didn’t you, by the way? You know my dedication to beating the shit outta Frank is pretty solid.” 

Ian smiles at that because he hears the real question there – _why didn’t you trust me?_ – and he loves Mickey so much for it. 

“It wasn’t about hurting him.” He finally sighs, leaning back a little so he can sit on the armrest of the couch, suddenly tired. “I mean, I told Lip it was. Fuck, I _thought_ it was, but…I just needed to figure some things out. Shit only Frank could tell me.” 

Mickey can’t know what he means, not for sure, or at the very least not entirely, but he seems to understand the gist of it, and doesn’t ask for details. Instead he just stares at him, accepting and calm. “You get what you need?” 

Ian takes a deep breath, meets Mickey’s ice blue eyes, filled with a warmth and affection that Ian had, once upon a time, not even been sure the other boy was capable of, and nods slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I got everything I need.” 

He’s not talking about Frank anymore, and they both know it. 

***

The story Fiona tells at the trial doesn’t surprise Ian, not really. He doesn’t remember it, he’d been way too young, and he’s never heard it before – neither has Lip, Ian asks him later – but it’s just so fucking _Frank_. It almost makes him feel better, knowing that it’s always been like this. Like, there wasn’t some mystical time where Frank and Monica had actually been good parents that he just doesn’t remember. It’s always been the Gallagher kids against the world, even before he was old enough to know it. It’s comforting, in a weird way. 

Later, after they celebrate properly with barbeque and a lot of time in the pool, the kids running around energized and free, he and Lip tell Fiona about the will. That’s tomorrow’s problem, though, they all decide, and after he and Lip tuck Carl and Liam into bed – Fiona’s with Debbie – they get a moment, this one peaceful little window, where everything feels good. 

“I think I’m gonna go out tonight.” Lip tells him in the hallway, the two of them smoking their respective cigarettes away from the kids – knowing that while they’re well used to the smell at this point, it’s harder for them to sleep surrounded by it. “See Mandy.” 

“Have fun.” Ian nods. “Use condoms.” 

Lip kicks his ankle lightly, all the drama from the Ian-not-killing-Frank thing long passed. “I told her to bring Mickey with her so I could buy some weed off him.” 

Ian’s eyebrows quirk. “You got a dealer for that.” 

“I know,” Lip acknowledges, “but I figure that gives him an excuse to be there, and if you tag along, me and Mandy can ditch you two and she won’t think anything of it.” 

“You settin’ up booty calls for me now?” Ian asks, not bothering to hide his amusement. 

“Look, the dude is…whatever, alright?” Lip scratches his nose, clearly uncomfortable. “He was helpful when I thought you were out murdering our dad, and he seemed to, I dunno. To give a shit. Whatever you two have, and I ain’t asking for details or anything, but it seems to be working.” 

“What’s working?” Fiona asks, coming out of Debbie’s room and catching the end of Lip’s sentence before Ian can respond. 

“Nothing.” He says quickly. 

Almost in the same breath Lip tells her, “Ian’s got a boyfriend.” 

“Shut up,” she says, grinning widely and walking over to them, taking Ian’s cigarette out of his hand while he’s distracted glaring at Lip. “Who?” 

“No one.” He grits out, giving his brother an incredibly pointed look. 

“Real closet case.” Lip says, thankfully not dropping any names. “Too chicken shit to come out.” 

“He’s got a complicated family, alright?” Ian defends Mickey almost without thought, and it scares him a little how strongly he feels the need to do so. “His dad’s a real asshole. And not like Frank-asshole, okay? More like he and I would both get shot and dumped in a river if he ever found out asshole.” 

“Jesus, Ian,” Fiona stops grinning at the force of his words, and he kind of wants to backpedal now, because of course she’s going to worry, hearing something like that. “you sure this guy’s worth it?” 

Lip quirks an eyebrow at him, undoubtedly wanting to know the answer to that even more than Fiona does. It doesn’t take him as long to respond as it probably should. Hell, he doesn’t have to think about it at all. 

“Yeah. Yeah, he’s worth it.”

***  
***

“Why the fuck am I coming with you to your booty call with Gallagher?” Mickey gripes, for not the first time, as he and his sister head down the street. 

“He said he wanted some weed,” Mandy rolls her eyes, because Mickey already has a baggie of joints in his pocket for exactly that reason, he just likes bitching about shit. “Fiona got rid of their stash when Family Services raided the place.” 

“Still.” Mickey huffs. “Coulda been at a reasonable fucking hour.” 

“You woke up at two this afternoon,” Mandy points out, grinning when he glares at her, “and I figure you might wanna hear how their trial went today.”

“Why the fuck would I care what happens to the Gallaghers?” He demands, almost daring her to come clean about what she suspects is going on with him and Ian. She’s not an idiot, Mickey knows that much, and the force of his conviction a few days ago when they’d all thought Ian was out somewhere killing Frank, the way his arms had lingered around the younger boy, holding him back from beating the shit out of his brother…well, she’d seen all of that. And maybe she’d put it together. He needs to know, one way or the other. 

But she just shrugs at him, loose and easy. “You and Ian are friends.”

“Thank you for the update, Captain fucking Obvious.” 

“And I just figured – Oh, hey guys.” She calls, spotting Lip and – fuck, Ian’s here, too, Mickey hadn’t been expecting that. 

Mandy goes to Ian first – loyalty or something – and wraps him in a big hug. Mickey’s left hanging back, trying to not look like _he_ wants to be the one with his arms around the younger Gallagher like that. He’s not sure if anyone here _doesn’t_ know about him and Ian, and that scares the shit out of him. 

“Hey,” Ian greets her back, lifting her up a little because _fuck_ , he’s strong as hell and sometimes Mickey forgets that. “How’s it going?” 

She pulls back after he sets her down, enough to punch his arm hard. “Fuck you with _how’s it going_.” She snaps, heading to Lip’s side once her greetings with Ian are out of the way. “What happened today?”

The Gallagher’s matching grins are really answer enough, but Mandy still asks for details. She’d been planning on tagging along to their court thing, Mickey knows that much, but Colin had needed her help last minute with a pickup and they hadn’t gotten back in time. She’d bitched about it all afternoon. 

“It was great,” Lip tells them a few minutes later, lighting up one of the joints he’d just bought off of Mickey as the four of them walk down the street together. “Fiona told this fucking gut wrenching story about how Frank’s an awful person and Ian almost died. Judge ate it up.” 

“So, Fiona, like, adopted you?” Mandy asks, blowing right past the Ian-almost-died thing more quickly than Mickey’s strictly comfortable with, but the boy in question just knocks his shoulder lightly, smiling at him when he looks over. 

“Not exactly.” Ian says, taking a drag from the joint and passing it to Mickey, even though Mandy had been next. “Frank didn’t lose his parental rights-”

“Fucking bullshit.” Lip adds, clearly already a little stoned. 

“-but Fiona’s our…shit, what’s the word?” Ian slaps his brother’s shoulder a few times, prompting a soft scuffle between the two that Mickey feels no need whatsoever to break up. 

“Guardian.” Lip finally fills in. “She’s our legal guardian and fuck Frank.”

“Fuck Frank.” Ian agrees loudly, all but shouting the words at the sky, happily patting every single one of them on the back as he runs circles around them. 

Fuck, Mickey thinks. The kid’s always energetic when he gets high, but this is something else altogether. It makes him happy seeing him like this, and he can’t help it when he grins. Mandy catches him like that, watching Ian with fond amusement clear in his gaze, and he has to glower at her to get her to back off.

“Fuck Frank.” Mandy says, mostly just affectionately mocking the brothers. 

“Fuck something else,” Lip says then, attention clearly diverted as he dips Mickey’s sister low at the waist and kisses her stupid. Mickey has to look away because, seriously? 

Ian’s just laughing at them, though, nudging at their shoulders until they get the hint and rise up out of the shared private moment that hadn’t been private at all.

“We’re going back to our place.” Mandy declares, fisting a handful of Lip’s shirt in her hands and pulling at him roughly. “We’re gonna fu-uck.” She draws out the word, and Mickey shudders. 

He’s still gagging a little bit, long after they’re gone. “What?” Ian asks with a grin, passing him the joint that the other two had forgotten in their haste to get somewhere private. “You’ve never walked in on your sister fucking someone?” 

Mickey snorts. “Doesn’t mean I have to like seeing it.”

Ian laughs loudly, his voice echoing under the L, and Mickey’s attention turns towards him – Mandy and her douchebag love interest long forgotten. 

“You’re happy.” He hears himself saying. Good weed has always made him pretty chatty. With Ian, he finds he doesn’t mind all that much. 

“Fuck yes I’m happy,” The redhead declares, still bouncing and moving all around. Mickey kind of hates it, because he wants to _touch_ the fucker, goddammit, but he also loves it, too. Loves seeing Ian like this. 

“Good.” He says, loose-lipped around the buzz rolling through his veins. “Like it.”

“You do, huh?” Ian asks, stopping suddenly and turning to face him. Mickey’s breath catches in his throat. 

“Yeah, man,” he nods, dangerously close to acknowledging things he’s only recently started to admit to himself are real. “I really fucking do.”

Ian surges forward then and kisses him. It’s the first time since Mickey’s impromptu peck on his front porch, and his immediate response is to pull away. “The fuck?” He demands, the words coming out more terrified than angry. 

Ian just pulls back slightly, looking obscenely patient, and glances around, pointedly eyeing the absolutely no one in their immediate vicinity. His message is clear as day, the challenge in it as obvious as it is soft. _You have no reason not to, and you know you want to._

And then Mickey caves. Mickey caves so fast that it makes him dizzy, though not nearly as much as Ian’s lips do a moment later. 

They kiss under the L, surrounded by nothing but the two of them, and it’s absolutely fucking perfect. 

***

They wind up fucking outside. In a patch of grass under the train tracks. And Mickey knows it’s stupid, reckless, potentially suicidal (because if someone sees them, and that someone tells his father…) but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t give a single fuck because it’s Ian, and nothing has ever felt like this before. 

Ian’s cock is stretching him so wide and so fast that it burns, stings and tingles in the most delicious way there is. And Mickey’s hands are fisted in the grass underneath him, pulling up dirt and roots as he claws around the sensations. Ian’s weight is on top of him, all over him, his dick is inside of him, his hands are burning bruises into his hips, and it all combines into this solid mass of home and want and _safety_. Because despite the inherent risk of what they’re doing and where they’re doing it at, he feels so safe he thinks he could die right now and not have a single fucking regret. 

“Fuck,” Ian’s gasping above him, inching his hand closer to Mickey’s cock. “you close?” 

The other boy pants wildly into the night, breath mingling with the dewdrops forming on the grass. “Yeah. Yeah, c’mon. C’mon, Ian, harder, fuck me harder, man.” 

And Ian does. Ian gives Mickey everything he needs just because he asks. And because he needs it, too. 

When they come, it’s together. Perfectly in sync like nothing else in their world ever is. 

That’s when Mickey knows for sure. When he can’t deny it anymore, at least not to himself. 

He gets it now; why people write songs about this, why they become addicts when they lose it. He gets how it can mess with your whole life, why you’d go to jail to keep someone else safe, why you’d kill to see them happy. He understands it all; every cheesy line in every crappy movie, and all the bad decisions he’s seen his brothers and sister, his _mother_ , make. He gets why people do all of those things. Now that he knows what it feels like, knows for sure, he finally understands.

Love ruins you. 

***

Ian and Mickey are playing Call of Duty on what’s probably a stolen Xbox in the Gallagher living room early the next morning (or maybe it’s still late into the night) when Lip and Mandy stumble through the front door. Both boys look up for a moment, just to make sure something important isn’t happening, before returning to their game. 

“Fuck,” Lip comments, collapsing into a chair with Mandy falling seconds later into his lap. “do you live here now, too?” 

Mickey would have flicked him off if he hadn’t been so invested in the game. Ian doesn’t respond at all. 

The four of them stay like that – content in the Gallagher home together – for a couple hours before Fiona stumbles downstairs and breaks up the serenity of their shared space. 

“Can you guys at least pretend to set a good example for your siblings?” She asks them, more tired than annoyed. Mickey and Mandy both pause at her words, but Lip and Ian are a united front in ignoring her. The Milkovich’s share a glance, but in the end they follow suit, and as soon Fiona disappears into the kitchen to make coffee, Mickey and Ian go back to their game, while Lip and Mandy continue doing whatever they’d been doing on the laptop, laughing quietly with one another. 

It only lasts another ten minutes before Fiona is back in front of them, coffee cup in one hand, the other squarely on her hip. For as small as she is, her presence takes up a lot of space, and it’s barely thirty seconds before Ian’s pausing their virtual shootout and Lip’s half-closing the laptop, both brothers giving their older sister their full attention. 

Mickey’s actually kind of impressed. To get that kind of response from his kids, Terry would have had to smash his fist, or a human body, into a wall. Mandy must be thinking something along the same lines, because they both follow their respective partner’s leads and give the eldest in the room their full attention. 

“Mickey, Mandy,” she starts, eyeing the siblings that aren’t hers, “it’s always a pleasure, but Lip, Ian, and I need to have a Gallagher family meeting.” 

It’s as polite an invitation to fuck off as Mickey’s ever heard, and he feels himself wanting to obey just because of that, but when he glances over at Mandy her gaze is set into something fiercely stubborn that Mickey recognizes all too well. 

Lip must see it, too, because he shares a quick glance with Ian, and then says, “Debbie and Carl aren’t here,” almost casually, while leaning back in the chair like he’s planning on getting comfortable, an arm wrapped solidly around Mandy’s waist. 

“So it’s not really a family meeting,” Ian adds, almost like he’s finishing his brother’s thought, and Mickey has to wonder how many times in the past the two of them have played off each other like this just to annoy their older sister. If Fiona’s immediate eyeroll is anything to go by, the answer is probably _a lot_. 

“Liam’s not here, either,” Lip says, “but given the mental capacities of a two-year-old, I think we can let that slide.” 

“I can go wake up Debbie and Carl.” Ian’s offer sounds sincere, but the fact that he doesn’t even pretend to move gives him away pretty quick. 

Mickey hadn’t been expecting this – Ian’s defense of Mickey’s right to be included in his life like this. He hadn’t asked for it – Mandy had, in not so many words – but Mickey hadn’t ever thought he’d be part of a dynamic like this. Had never even considered how easily Ian would take to standing by his side. 

If the emotion he’s feeling right now has a name, Mickey sure as hell doesn’t know what it is. Knows he likes it, though. Same as Ian’s free and easy laughter, kissing him, and the sensation that had struck him while they’d been fucking out in the open under the train tracks. It reminds him of the way Ian’s voice gets low and demanding sometimes when they’re alone together, having sex or about to; the way Mickey’s body seems to crave the sensation of following orders and how his brain isn’t too opposed to the idea, either. Watching Ian stand up for him is kind of like all of those things, only softer and less intense. 

Fiona glares at her siblings. “It’s a big-kids only family meeting, and the three of us _need_ to talk about Patrick.” 

Mickey and Mandy share a look – _who the fuck?_ – and then glance at Ian and Lip respectively. But the younger Gallaghers are only looking at each other with matching expressions of dread and anger. “Patrick’s a lying sack of shit.” Lip declares. 

“Yeah,” Ian snorts. “a lying sack of shit who told the same sack of crap lie that we tried to get away with. We’re pissed because he beat us to the punch.” 

“Do you know what I had to do to bribe that notary?” Lip groans, taking a moment to bury his head in Mandy’s shoulder. 

“Wait,” Mickey’s sister jumps in, clarity dawning in her expression, “is this about the fake will you two were messing around with the other day?” 

“ _Guys_.” Fiona hisses.

“Oh, come on,” Ian says, full-on annoyance tinged slightly with childlike petulance. “Mickey, Mandy,” he starts, addressing them both bluntly but keeping his eyes on Fiona, “we faked our Aunt Ginger’s death to try to get ownership of the house, but our lying, backstabbing, asshole cousin Patrick had the same plan and did it first, and now we have to figure out a way to stop him from actually getting it or we’re all gonna wind up homeless.” He takes a breath and raises his eyebrows pointedly. “There. Now everyone’s caught up.” 

“I mean, technically we didn’t _fake_ her death,” Lip feels the need to correct, while Mickey’s still trying to wrap his mind around this newest bit of Gallagher mayhem. “she’s been buried in our backyard for years. We just stole a body and pretended she died last week.” 

“You were serious about digging up a body?” Mickey asks Ian, and he swears he hadn’t meant to contribute anything to this little exchange, but up until right then, he’d been really fucking sure Ian had been messing with him about that. 

“Can we _not_ tell our family secrets to every single fucking person we know?” Fiona exclaims, before anyone can say anything else. “Jesus fucking Christ, it’s like no one remembers how to keep a fucking secret around here.” 

“It’s not like we killed her.” Lip’s glaring at Fiona like she’s overacting, and Mickey would never say this out loud to anyone, but he honestly doesn’t think that she is. He gets the importance of secrets, of _needing_ certain things to remain private – more than anybody else in this room, he gets that – and while stealing a dead body and forging a will aren’t anywhere near the same as being gay, Mickey has to side with Fiona on this. 

Then again, Ian’s conviction is the only reason he’s sitting here listening to any of this, so maybe he has to side with Ian – and maybe, deeper down than that, he wants to, inherently, _always_ be on the redhead’s side – but he can relate to where Fiona’s coming from. 

“And it’s not every single fucking person we know.” Ian says, sounding less like an annoying little brother trying to get a rise out of the sister that had raised him, and more like a grown ass adult that knows what he wants. It makes Mickey’s insides tingle pleasantly. “We’re telling _them_ , these two people in this room. And, hey, maybe they can help, huh?” 

Fiona tips her head back and takes a deep breath. “We’ll talk about it more when the kids wake up,” she finally says, running a hand over her face tiredly, “but we need a Plan B. The _three_ of us need a Plan B, before the five of us can even think about coming up with a Plan A.”

Mickey doesn’t understand that, and, based on her expression, neither does Mandy. Lip and Ian both see their confusion, and their faces soften almost at the same moment. 

“Debbie and Carl need to feel like everything’s going to be okay.” Lip says, mostly addressing Mandy. 

“Even though it’s probably not going to be okay.” Ian adds, shrugging sadly at Mickey. 

“What the hell does that mean?” Mandy demands, and she’s not the only one who wants to know. 

Fiona takes a deep breath, and sits down across from them on the table, cup of coffee still cradled in her hands. “It means we’ll figure out how to deal with Patrick.” She says firmly, eyeing Lip and Ian meaningfully. “We _will_.” 

“But if we don’t,” Lip prompts, and Mickey sees it where his fingers hold a little bit tighter to his sister’s waist. As a general rule, he doesn’t care much for Ian’s older brother, but he thinks his desperation in this moment is something he can relate to. 

Out of habit, and because he fucking has to, his eyes dart to Ian. His face is set firm and rigid. Mickey takes a moment to wonder what his hands would be doing, where his body would be, if he and Mickey were out about who and what they were to each other. The thought makes his heart ache painfully. 

“If we don’t,” Fiona picks up with a sigh, “if we _can’t_ , we have to have a backup plan. I can’t lose you guys again.” 

“Lip and I will get an apartment,” Ian says simply, sadly, and Mickey watches the way the lines on his face smooth into acceptance. “If we both drop out and start working full time, we can make enough to afford a two-bedroom somewhere farther south.” 

Mickey’s been _farther south_ – to the crack dens and dog fights that litter the part of this city that’s even worse than theirs – and he does _not_ want Ian living there. He knows he’s not allowed to say that, though, and he hates his self-imposed silence. 

“Carl and Debbie can stay with us, at least whenever DCF is poking around.” Lip finishes, nodding at Fiona. “And you can find somewhere to stay with just Liam. Maybe move in with Kev and V?”

“Or you and Jimmy could move in with his parents?” Ian suggests. 

“Well that’d be weird.” Fiona deadpans, giving Ian a pointed look. 

“They’re divorced now,” the redhead counters, maybe trying to soothe Mickey’s dislike of that notion as much as his sister’s. “and his mom’s in that huge house all alone. And she’s always drunk. Probably wouldn’t even notice you guys for a while.” 

Fiona snorts a little, trying to find the humor in a truly fucked up situation. 

“You can’t drop out of school.” Mandy says, eyes squarely on Lip. “You have to go to college. You’re taking the SATs.” 

Ian’s gaze drops suddenly and tellingly; he’s clearly been bound by brotherly loyalty to keep his mouth shut about something related to that particular topic. Mickey lets the small disagreement that his sister and Ian’s brother begin over that play out without paying too much attention. He gets it, Mandy’s dedication to Lip. He gets it in a way he wouldn’t have a few weeks ago – hell, in a way he wouldn’t have even admitted to himself _yesterday_. She’s in love with the guy, and she wants everything for him. 

He understands that now, and while the two of them – and then Fiona – are arguing about the reality of the situation in front of them, Mickey takes a moment to talk to Ian, just the two of them, because no one else is listening in this den of chaos. 

“I could help out, y’know.” 

Ian glances over at him and smiles. He doesn’t ask what Mickey means, doesn’t need to and isn’t the type to pretend. “It’s not your thing.” Ian tells him, sounding tired. 

Mickey just hums, not wanting to start another version of the argument that Mandy and Lip are currently having. “Y’think it’ll come to that? You and your brother living with a couple kids next to crack whores and hitmen in the shittiest part of Chicago there is?” 

Ian’s half-smile is sad and determined. “I hope not.” He says, completely honest because no one else is listening to him, and he doesn’t have to lie to Mickey. “I really fucking hope not, but…shit, man, I don’t know. We have to stick together. If it was just the three of us it wouldn’t be so bad, we could do whatever, take off, survive, but Carl and Debbie and Liam…they deserve more.” 

Mickey thinks about Carl’s innocent curiosity and how he probably wouldn’t even care if he found out that Ian and Mickey have been fucking for years. He thinks about Debbie’s bright red hair, so similar to Ian’s, and the knowing smirk she always seems to be sporting whenever Mickey catches an odd glimpse of her around the neighborhood. He thinks about Liam’s baby-babbling, and how Ian had cradled him to his chest in that foster family’s bedroom, looking like he never wanted to let go. He takes a deep breath, and presses his knuckles against the other boy’s thigh when he’s sure no one else is watching. 

“Yeah.” He breathes, hating that he gets it but knowing that he does. “I could still help out, though. Just, don’t say no.” He cuts the redhead off before he gets the chance to protest. 

“Okay.” Ian nods after a beat, gazing at him softly. “I won’t say no.” 

It feels like a promise.

___________________________________________________

**Next Time:**

_Later, Mickey will remember this as one of the last times Ian had looked truly unburdened. He’ll picture it, this moment that’s happening right now, as a long-lost ideal. Mickey doesn’t know that now, of course. Couldn’t, and probably wouldn’t have wanted to even if he could. He vows to commit it to memory all the same, though. Not because he knows what’s coming, but because even in the innocence of ignorance he still wants to remember this. He wants to remember Ian like this – demanding, confident, and so in love that Mickey doesn’t understand, not even for a second, how he hadn’t seen it before._

___________________________________________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts, as always, are love :)


	7. Tick Tick Tick

**\--VII--**

_Tick Tick Tick_

***

“His wife pulled a fucking gun on me.” Mickey exclaims, pacing the length of Ian’s bedroom. “How was I supposed to know that bitch would show up?” 

Ian’s smiling a little, not nearly as pissed about the whole botched scare-the-shit-out-of-the-cousin-trying-to-steal-the-Gallagher’s-house job as Mickey had expected him to be. “Sorry Patrick stole your chain.” Is all he says in response. 

Mickey rolls his eyes. “I’ll get a new one.” He won’t. He’ll keep the money Fiona had given him in case Ian needs it later. “Where does this leave you guys?” 

Ian lays down on his mattress, feet still pressed against the floor because he’s just that goddamn tall, and taps his fingers against his stomach. “Fucked.” He says bluntly, a few seconds later. “I think we’re at the point where we’re officially fucked.” 

Mickey isn’t sure how to handle the other boy’s despondent tone, he still feels a little guilty about not properly beating the shit out of Patrick, and he’s really, really fucking pissed that the dude’s wife had caught him off guard with a fucking riffle. 

To make up for it, and to distract himself, and because he just fucking _wants to_ , more than anything, Mickey climbs up on the bed with Ian, straddling the other boy’s waist with a smile he’s pretty sure comes out more hopeful than lust-ridden. “You wanna bang?” 

Ian’s eyes go wide, almost comically so, as they glance habitually to the bedroom door – which is shut, but not locked. Never locked, because only rich people have locks on doors that don’t lead outside. 

“Lip’s in the other room with Mandy.” Ian mentions, trying to play it cool even as his Adam’s apple bobs with a gulp. 

“I know.” Mickey says easily, almost patiently. 

“Fiona and Jimmy will probably be home soon.” 

“I know.” He repeats, splaying one hand across Ian’s chest, smirking when the other boy’s breath hitches as he grazes a nipple under the fabric of his t-shirt. 

“Carl and Debbie…” but Ian trails off after that, losing his train of thought completely when Mickey proudly palms at that monster cock. 

“What was that, mumbles?” He’s smiling so wide his face hurts. 

“Fuck,” the other boy breathes, finally giving in altogether and reaching back to grab at Mickey’s ass cheeks, fisting the pale globes in those wonderfully large hands of his. “Kiss me.” 

Mickey’s leaning down before he even realizes what he’s doing, responding automatically to Ian’s demand. He pauses for a second, inches away from the other boy’s face. Ian’s eyes are bright, almost shinning, forest green and crystal clear. 

Later, Mickey will remember this as one of the last times Ian had looked truly unburdened. He’ll picture it, this moment that’s happening right now, as a long-lost ideal. Mickey doesn’t know that now, of course. Couldn’t, and probably wouldn’t have wanted to even if he could. He vows to commit it to memory all the same, though. Not because he knows what’s coming, but because even in the innocence of ignorance he still wants to remember this. He wants to remember _Ian_ like this – demanding, confident, and so in love that Mickey doesn’t understand, not even for a second, how he hadn’t seen it before. 

Their lips meet firm and solid less than a breath later. 

***  
***

Mickey’s never ridden him before. 

For as much as they fuck – and they fuck _a lot_ – Ian’s struck sometimes by the habitual nature of their encounters. In the beginning, Ian thinks it had always been the same because Mickey had been afraid of making it more. Daily _wham bam thank you, man_ ’s in the stockroom of the Kash-N-Grab were all they had because that’s all Mickey could handle. Ian had been younger then, fresh off the heels of fucking Kash on a regular basis, and so desperate for the hard-ass thug who took it up the ass so goddamn _good_ , begged him so well, even when he didn’t say a word, that he’d been willing to settle for that. Or, at least accept it. For a while. 

Mickey hadn’t wanted a relationship. Hadn’t wanted kissing or handholding or anything, really, except a dick in his ass every chance he got. 

Ian hadn’t minded that in the beginning, but then the _feelings_ had started. He still doesn’t know exactly what it had been, back then – he knows what it is _now_ , could write a dissertation on his feelings about Mickey fucking Milkovich and still have words leftover – because in those first few months, Mickey hadn’t given him anything, but Ian had still wanted all of him. It had just been hormones, maybe. Teenage lust and angst. Or maybe it had been something deeper than that, something bred from Monica and Frank and growing up Southside – he’s used to heartache, probably even finds the familiarity of it comfortable after all these years, and Mickey had been that in spades: guaranteed destruction. 

One way or another, Ian had caught feelings for the other boy, and it had ruined him. 

While all Gallaghers are stubborn by nature, Ian’s always been specifically bullheaded when it comes to relationships and love, and he’d latched onto Mickey like a dog to a bone – like Frank to a bottle – and had decided, way too early on, that he would get more out of the other boy or die trying. 

In this neighborhood, and when Terry Milkovich is unwaveringly a factor, _die trying_ is a lot more than a throwaway romantic cliché. Ian would literally die trying, if that’s what it took. 

He really hopes it never comes to that. 

Over the years, and not without a lot of struggle and heartache, Ian’s whittled his way past at least some of Mickey’s inherent defenses; gotten the other boy to a place where he’s not afraid of every single display of affection, is willing to take the risk sometimes, will kiss Ian without looking over his shoulder. It’s something, he can’t deny that. But still, most of the time Ian’s left longing for more. 

It’s Mickey’s fear that keeps their relationship mostly plateaued, and Ian understands it, he _does_ , but he also fucking hates it. The other boy has mastered the art of giving Ian just enough that he rarely brings it up, though. He hardly ever pushes Mickey for more, because just when he’s about to, when he feels the roadblocks starting to get too heavy, Mickey will change something up, offer Ian a piece of himself that the redhead’s never seen before, and it’ll soothe the ache in his chest, for a while. 

It’s been happening more and more lately; Mickey offering Ian changes that incrementally shift the entire foundation of their dynamic. It’s not dissimilar to the rate at which glaciers move, Ian thinks, but it’s something. 

“ _Fuck_.” he groans, completely cut off from his musings by the feel of Mickey’s ass clenching around him, and the truly spectacular sight of the other boy sitting in his lap, head thrown back in pleasure, as he rides Ian’s cock like he was fucking _made_ for it. “Yeah, fuck, c’mon, Mick, take it. Shit, you take it so good. Look so fucking hot like this.” 

“Shh,” Mickey scolds, though his small smirk and reddening cheeks give away how much he likes it when Ian talks to him like that. “they’re gonna hear you.” 

Ian feels a flash of rage – true, mostly unprompted, _hate_ – at the idea that he can’t be as loud as he wants, that he can’t make Mickey scream and beg and cry for it. He grabs the other boy’s hips roughly with both hands and thrusts up hard, nailing his prostate dead on, if Mickey’s sudden gasp is any indication. “I wanna fucking _hear_ you.” He growls, possessive need curling at the back of his neck, the tips of his fingers. 

Mickey’s shaking his head even as his hips continue to roll. “We’re not alone.” He bites, harsh around his mounting pleasure and the stamina it’s taking to keep lifting himself up and down. “Gets me hard as hell,” he adds a second later, when Ian’s expression doesn’t soften, “all that demanding shit you pull in the sack. Shit, Gallagher, fucking love it. But we gotta be _careful_.” 

Ian takes a deep breath and nods, feels himself calming down again at Mickey’s confession. He’s known for a long time, the kinds of things Mickey will respond to in bed, the way he seems to crave them sometimes, but this is the first time the other boy has ever actually admitted anything like that out loud. 

Incremental shifts that alter the entire foundation of their dynamic. 

Mickey bites his lip and glances away, as if staring at Ian after saying that is too much. It probably is, for him. Ian wants to tell him that he would never use something like that against him, that he thinks it’s hot as fuck, but that he also understands that it’s _private_. Ian, personally, doesn’t feel like their relationship as a whole should be a secret – he wants to shout it from the fucking rooftops, how much he loves Mickey – but he gets that _this_ , these specific details of what they do when they’re alone together, are too intimate to share with anyone else. 

Hearing all of that would be too much for Mickey, though, and he’d probably bolt. It’s the same loop they’ve been stuck in together for years now so Ian just sighs, and stops thinking about it all. “Keep going,” he says instead, making sure his voice doesn’t raise beyond a whisper. “wanna see you come all over yourself, Mick. Tryin’ to keep quiet. Bet you won’t be able to, either.” 

Mickey seems to consider the words a challenge, because he spends the next five minutes riding Ian’s dick hard and fast, and when he does finally come it’s almost silently, biting his lip so hard that tears well up in the corner of his eyes. 

Ian digs his nails into the soft flesh of the other boy’s shoulder as he rears up moments later, following him into the blissful serenity of sexual relief. 

***  
***

It’s seconds after they’re both dressed and casually smoking – Ian sitting on the bed, Mickey at the desk – that Debbie barges in without knocking. 

He feels his heart speed up when he realizes how close the two of them had just come to being found naked together. Mickey hadn’t heard anyone else enter the house at any point while they’d been fucking; though, he supposes, he had been a little preoccupied. 

If Ian feels any of the same nerves about the close call, he doesn’t let them show. “What?” He asks his little sister, quirking his eyebrows and looking annoyed. 

“Fiona says you have to come downstairs.” She sounds way more serious than a kid her age ever should, and Mickey has a sudden flash of the entire Gallagher clan standing together and staring at them the second they enter the room together, because they know, they’ve found out somehow, that the two of them are fucking. 

“I’m busy.” Is Ian’s response to Debbie, and Mickey just watches, frozen, as the younger girl crosses her arms over her chest. 

“It’s important.” 

“What’s going on?” Ian demands, rubbing at the back of his neck tiredly. “Huh? Jesus, Debs, we’ve been running around trying to deal with this shit for days. Can I have a few fucking seconds where it’s not –”

“Carl killed Patrick.” Her words stop Ian mid-sentence, understandably so, and Mickey thinks he can relate to the dumbstruck look that takes over his expression. 

“Come again, Little Red?” Mickey prompts, when Ian doesn’t respond for long time, mouth hanging open in shock. 

“Well, we’re not sure if he’s dead yet.” Debbie elaborates. “But Carl fed him rat poison, so there’s definitely a chance. You have to come downstairs so we can get our stories straight.” And then she disappears out the door again, heading down the hall to deliver the same news to Lip. 

“Jeez, man,” Mickey laughs a little, eyeing Ian, who’s still staring at the spot Debbie had just been. “and I thought my family was fucked up.” 

Ian shakes himself out of his stupor then, glancing over at him and snorting loudly. “Well, it’s not like there’s a monopoly on fucked up families around here.” 

Mickey nods a few times, wondering who would actually win in a contest. The Milkovichs have more hate and violence in their favor, but the Gallaghers are so fucking _complicated_ that it truly boggles the mind sometimes. 

***

Mickey has to leave not long after that afternoon – accompany his father on some drug deal a couple hours outside the city. He doesn’t want to go, not before he knows whether or not Ian’s going to be homeless by the time he gets back, but it’s not like he has a fucking choice. 

“You could always tell dad to fuck off.” Mandy suggests, arms crossed and leaning against the frame of his bedroom door as he angrily stuffs clothes into a duffle bag. 

“Yeah, that’d work.” Mickey snorts. 

If she knows anything about him and Ian, she keeps her mouth shut. It’s better that way, he tells himself, better that she stays in the dark about it, because the less people who know the better. The better for him and Ian and the better for Mandy, truly, because if their dad ever found out that she’d known and kept it a secret… well, that isn’t something Terry would take kindly to, either. Mickey cares about his sister enough that he doesn’t want her to have to deal with that kind of fallout. 

Mandy shatters all of admittedly fading illusions the very next morning; right before they’re about to take off, she grabs Mickey’s arm – the two of them alone in the kitchen together – and holds onto it none too lightly even as he spins to face her with a murderous scowl. “The fuck?” 

“You think he’s going to deal with this forever?” She spits, getting right up in his face like she’s not afraid at all. She shouldn’t be, Mickey supposes, because he’s never truly hurt her. He doesn’t believe in hitting girls. He’ll fuck with her – she’s his sister, after all – but he’d never _hurt_ her.

Mickey, on the other hand, is terrified.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“He needs you right now, and you’re just gonna take off with dad?” Her lip is curled up in distaste, and Mickey’s brain is trying to process too many things at once, far too many. It’s making him dizzy. 

“What – what are you…” he swallows thickly, he can feel the blood drain out of his face. “I don’t…”

“You’re a fucking pussy.” She spits at him, then abruptly lets go of his arm and walks away. 

Mickey tries not to think about it the entire time he’s in the car with his dad and brothers, tries to not let it distract him while they’re making a drug deal with some convicted felons, tries not to let it seep under his skin as they scarf down greasy burgers at some disgusting diner hours after the deal goes off without a hitch; he tries so hard, but he can’t fucking help it. 

Mandy _knows_. 

Mandy knows he’s gay. 

Mandy knows he’s gay and with Ian. 

Mandy knows all the things that he’s been trying his whole life to keep secret and she’d called him a pussy for wanting to _keep_ them a secret. She’d called him a pussy for not siding with Ian, really, and Mickey gets that there’s loyalty there – that Ian and Mandy have been best friends for a really long time and that she cares about him a lot, probably more than any of her actual brothers – but also, and he feels this pretty strongly, _fuck her_ for thinking she understands anything about his life. 

Being gay in the Milkovich house is a death sentence, end of story, and she wants him to just _ignore_ that in order to…fucking what? Hold Ian’s hand while he finds out if his brother really did kill their cousin or if he’s going to be homeless anytime soon? Somehow it’s not enough that Mickey actually gives a shit about those things, that he _wants_ to be there; Mandy’s giving him hell for not fighting dad? 

Just, fuck her. 

And fuck her for figuring it out, too. 

Fuck her for knowing him. And for knowing Ian. Fuck her for being able to be there when he can’t. 

Mickey spends a lot of time during that trip hating Mandy, but even he knows it’s just an exercise in distraction. Yeah, fuck her for being a cunt about it, and not understanding the position he’s in, but deep down he knows that he hates himself more than he could ever hate her. He hates himself for being a coward and he hates his dad for turning him into one, but none of that is Mandy’s fault. She’s just being who she is – because she has that luxury. 

“We’re goin’ a few hours South next month.” Terry tells Mickey, Colin, and Iggy in the car the next morning, no room in his tone for argument because he knows none of his sons would ever dare. “I gotta shit load’a meth to move and a buyer lined up, but I’ve never dealt with ‘im before, so we’re gonna bring the big guns. Literally.” He chuckles like that’s the cleverest joke he’s ever made. 

Mickey just nods his understanding and goes back to staring out the window. His life is never going to change, he realizes dully. It’s always just going to be this – drug runs, waving guns, and wondering if this is the job that leaves him locked up or dead. He’s never thought about wanting more than this, never even considered that there might be a life for him outside of this world, but Ian…fucking _Ian_ , with his bright-eyed hope and Army fatigues, he deserves more than this. More than Mickey will ever be able to offer him. 

He thinks about how Mandy had spent weeks applying to colleges for Lip – because the dude’s too fucking stupid to do it himself – and how Mickey hadn’t understood why she’d bother, why she’d _risk_ it, because if the elder Gallagher makes it out of the Southside, there’s no way in fuck he’s taking Mandy with him. He gets it now, though. He gets wanting better for the person you love. He’s not sure he’s strong enough to do what Mandy had done – build Ian a fucking door and push him all the way through it, kicking his ass on the way out – but he knows that if the opportunity comes up, _when_ it does, because sooner or later of course it will, he’ll have to make Ian leave. Even if it kills him, he knows that’s what he’ll have to do. 

***

The next few weeks pass in a haze for Mickey. 

He and Ian fuck a lot, just like they always have. They fuck when Mickey gets back and finds out that Patrick hadn’t died and the Gallaghers still got to keep their house – _“Something about Debbie lying about being molested,”_ Ian had explained breathlessly, spent from the sex they’d just finished having, _“I didn’t really wanna ask for details.”_ – they fuck on the rooftop of their abandoned building any night they both think they can get away with sneaking off, they fuck in the stockroom of the Kash-N-Grab because it’s so familiar that it almost feels like coming home every time they close the door behind them. 

Mickey wants to be content with it; take what he can get and not think too hard about what’s going to happen when it all comes crashing down around them. But it’s like a clock had started counting down in his brain as soon as he’d realized that Ian deserves more than this, and Mickey can hear the steady _tick tick tick_ of his time running out every second of every day. 

It comes to a head the day before he’s set to leave with his dad and brothers on the meth run. 

“It’s this hick fucking town down South,” Mickey’s explaining to Ian, smoking and drinking a beer as he packs a duffle bag. “right on the Missouri border, population under two fucking hundred, probably, and not a single one’a ‘em ain’t a meth, crack, or pill head.”

“Good for business.” Ian offers, sitting on the edge of Mickey’s bed and occasionally sipping at the beer can Mickey had offered him when he’d shown up earlier. The younger boy is being quiet, unusually so, but Mickey figures that’s because he’s worried about the run, or pissed at Mickey for taking off. Either way, he knows he’ll have make it up to the redhead as soon as he gets back. 

“Yeah, man, but it’s fucking depressing.” Mickey chuckles, trying to get a rise out of the younger boy. “And everyone _hunts_. Like, why the fuck you gotta shoot and skin a goddamn deer just to make dinner, y’know? Go to fucking McDonalds.” 

That gets a small chuckle out of Ian, and Mickey feels proud of having caused it. “You do know that’s where meat comes from, right? Dead animals?” 

“Don’t mean I fucking wanna see it.” Mickey grouches. 

“You’re kind of a softie.” Ian tells him, grinning a little. Mickey doesn’t bother to do more than flick him off. 

They exist silently with each other for a while after that, Ian continuing to stare absently at nothing, and Mickey starts to get worried a little, like if he doesn’t say something, something nice, Ian’s going to hold onto this grudge or whatever it is the whole time Mickey’s gone, and maybe after he gets back, too. 

“Shouldn’t be too long,” he hears himself saying. “A week, maybe a week and a half. Then my dad’ll probably be AWOL for a while, he always up and vanishes after a good run, maybe he’ll ever get himself arrested again, that’d be pretty –”

“I might not be here when you get back.” Ian blurts suddenly, and Mickey stops talking, stops moving, stops breathing. 

“What?” He feels Ian’s words like a punch in the gut, a blow to his heart. 

“Fiona wants to move us to Michigan.” Ian’s words come out in a rush, like he’s been holding onto them for a while now.

Mickey takes a step back, balking at the unexpectedness of the other boy’s confession. “What the fuck’s in Michigan?” 

“Jimmy’s medical school.” 

“The hell’s that got to do with you?” Mickey spits, because seriously – fuck Ian’s family sometimes.

“Exactly.” The redhead rolls his eyes, leveling the emotion in the room somewhat. “I’m not going.” 

“Good.” Mickey nods firmly. His relief doesn’t last long. 

“But I can’t stay here, either.” 

“Why the fuck not?” He demands, though he already has a pretty good idea. 

“If Fiona leaves, Patrick’s gonna rent the house out to someone else, then where am I gonna go?” Ian asks, shrugging a little because it’s mostly a rhetorical question. “Lip’s gonna go to college, but I’m not even out of high school yet, not like I’m gonna be able to afford a place myself.”

“Stay with me.” The words are out of his mouth so fast that he doesn’t even stop to think what they mean, on a grand scale or a small one. 

“You know I can’t.” Ian says softly, face smoothing into something truly touched and loving in the wake of Mickey’s immediate offer. 

“Sure you can,” he presses, even though he knows Ian well and truly can’t, and that he’s probably being cruel by dangling it in front of him as an offer, but he feels desperate now, in a way he never has before. _Tick tick tick_. “You can stay in Mandy’s room. Dad’s used to her having guys in and out of there all the time, anyway, and it wouldn’t be for long. You save up some money, maybe we can…”

“We?” Ian asks, and there’s a little bit of playful challenge in there, of course there is, but there’s also a helluva lotta _hope_. 

“I don’t…” Mickey swallows thickly. This is too much. All of a sudden this is way too much too fast and too fucking real. It feels like his life is ending. Or beginning. Fuck. He doesn’t fucking know. Something is _changing_ , or trying to, and it’s scaring the shit out of him because he knows what has to come next. “Fuck, Ian.”

“Let’s leave.” The redhead gets up off the bed and walks over to him, so close that there’s barely an inch between them. Mickey actually has to look _up_ to meet those green eyes he knows so well at this point, and his heart clenches at the sheer volume of want and anticipation he sees painted in their depths. “Together. Let’s just _go_. Fuck, Mick, you’re already packed, it’s perfect.”

Mickey’s shaking his head, not denying that he wants what’s being offered, exactly, more it’s just that he’s having a hard time wrapping his head around how fast everything has changed. “Ian…”

“Look,” the younger boy snaps, frustrated, “what you and I have, it’s the best thing I’ve got, okay? Probably the best thing you’ve got, too,” fuck, they both know how true that is, “and I don’t want to lose you, but we obviously can’t be together here. Not when you’re terrified of your father, or fucking _anyone_ , finding out about us. So let’s…let’s just go somewhere where it doesn’t fucking _matter_ , okay? The West coast, maybe. Yeah,” he nods, like he’s just deciding now, in this moment, and it’s making Mickey’s head spin. “we can go to California. San Francisco. Who the fuck’s gonna care we’re gay in fucking San Francisco, right?” 

Mickey takes a deep breath and holds it for a few seconds, not once breaking eye contact with Ian. “And what’d we do for money?” He finally croaks, not sure what else to say, besides the _yesyesyes_ that’s running on a loop through his mind. 

Ian just shakes his head and grins wide, like he’s already won. “Who the fuck cares?” He laughs. “We’ll get money. I’ll get a job. A fake ID and a real, legit job. And you can, too. You can…I don’t know, be a mechanic, or a fry cook, or write a fucking book,” Mickey snorts loudly, and Ian tosses him a lopsided smile. “or stock shelves, or work security, or…fuck, man, anything you goddamn want. It doesn’t matter, we’ll figure it out. We’ll be _together_.” 

It sounds so good. It’s literally the best offer Mickey’s ever gotten in his entire fucking life and he wants to say yes. He wants to say yes so fucking bad that it _hurts_. It’s the most painful thing he’s ever felt – worse than his father beating the shit out of him when he was kid, worse than being called a pathetic good for nothing waste of space, worse than finding his mother’s dead body on the couch when he was nine, worse than watching Ian play happy couple with that rich ancient fucker, worse than getting shot, worse than any of the beatings he’d taken in juvie. 

Saying no to Ian is the worst thing he’s ever had to do. 

“I can’t.” 

Ian’s face falls, and Mickey’s gut drops right along with it. He hates himself more than he ever has before. God, he hates _everything _right now. Even Ian, for putting this in front of him in the first place. And because anger is easier than pain, that’s what he latches onto.__

__“And fuck you.”_ _

__Ian takes a step back, but his eyes narrow. “Fuck _me_?” _ _

__Mickey sniffs and runs his hands through his hair. He tilts his body away, almost subconsciously, from the overwhelming emotion of this moment. “Yeah, _fuck_ you.” He repeats louder, like if there’s more volume behind the words he’s going to mean them more. “Fuck you for…for just _blurting_ this shit all over the place, for putting it out there. You know I can’t do something like…fuck, you know I can’t _leave_. You _know_ that.” _ _

__“But you can,” Ian insists, moving closer again until his hands are on Mickey’s shoulders. The older boy quickly shrugs them off. “You _can_.” Ian repeats, stepping back but not backing down. “Just leave with me.” _ _

__“I don’t have that kind of choice, Ian,” Mickey means for it to come out angry, he’s sure he does, but they both hear the desperation so clearly that it slices through them, between them, like a blade. “I’m stuck here, man. This is my life. If I left –”_ _

__“What?” Ian cuts him off harshly. “If you left what would happen?”_ _

__“He’d find me, man.” Mickey insists, shaking his head. “He’d kill me.”_ _

__“No, he wouldn’t.” the redhead laugh-screams, his emotions clearly not sure about which path they want to take. “Fuck, Mick. Maybe you’re right that he’d come after you if he found out you were gay, I know he’s an evil, psychotic prick, I do. But if you just left? He wouldn’t track you down.”_ _

__“He would if he found out who I left with.”_ _

__“So we don’t let him find that out.”_ _

__“He would, eventually.” Mickey shakes his head. “And…and even if he didn’t…I mean, this is Chicago, man, we’re _from_ here. Do you really wanna leave?”_ _

__“Yes.”_ _

__“I-I-I can’t.” Mickey doesn’t think he’s breathing anymore, all the air sucked out of his lungs and dropping uselessly with those two words. “I can’t, Ian. I can’t.”_ _

__“You’re just scared.” Ian accuses. “You’re scared of your father, of your family, of anyone finding out the truth. You’re afraid to be who you are.” He emphasizes those last words by poking Mickey’s chest._ _

__Mickey doesn’t deny it. He can’t, at this point, because it’s true. It’s so fucking true, and Ian deserves more than this. More than him._ _

__“Fuck you, Gallagher.” The tears in his eyes betray how much he doesn’t mean those words._ _

__Ian looks at him one last time, and Mickey sees it when pleading hope transforms into resolved determination and pain. “Bye, Mick.” He whispers, voice catching on the words as he backs away from him and walks out of the bedroom, out of the house, and out of Mickey’s life, once and for all._ _

__The clock finally stops ticking._ _

____

___________________________________________________

**Next Time:**

_“I mean…fuck,” he starts with an unamused laugh, “what do people ever want to change about themselves? The shit they do, mostly, right? Don’t wanna be addicts anymore, don’t wanna be criminals anymore, don’t wanna beat on their kids because they had a bad fucking day, whatever. But that’s all shit people can change, if they gave two fucks. I can’t change the fact that I like dick. And yeah, it makes my life fucking complicated as shit most of the time, but I wouldn’t fucking change it, even if I could.”_

___________________________________________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so now feels like a good time to mention that there will be angst forthcoming. Our boys are coming upon some hard times, and they deal with their respective…dilemmas… a little differently here than they do in canon. Never fear, though, Mickey and Ian together and in love always is, and always will be, the end game.


	8. Long Way from Home

**\--VIII--**

_Long Way from Home_

**“Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change.”**  
― Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Frankenstein

***

The meth deal goes bad. 

So fucking bad that it actually distracts Mickey from the pain of losing Ian. Then again, watching his father kill one of the dealers they meet up with, having twelve guns drawn on him by undercover cops, and then getting arrested would probably be enough to distract anyone from anything.

Colin gets off the easiest, because he’d been in the car at the time of the shootout. He takes a plea and only spends three months in prison. It would have no time at all if he’d testified against his family, but Milkovich’s don’t fucking do that shit. After he gets out, he takes off – meets some girl in this shit for nothing city and knocks her up the second time they bang. He moves to Arizona or Utah, some stupid, hot as shit place like that, to be closer to her family. Mickey reads the letters because it’s not like he has anything fucking better to do with his time. He doesn’t really care, one way or another. Colin still sends money when he can, and that’s pretty much all Mickey needs. 

Terry gets twenty-five years. The meth-head he’d shot had been one of the undercover cops. Mickey’s honestly surprised he doesn’t get the death penalty. 

Mickey and Iggy meet with their state-appointed public defenders together, because they’d been involved exactly the same amount and have already told the underpaid douchebags representing them that they’re not going to snitch on each other, or even Terry, no matter what they offer. So their lawyers work together instead, and concoct this narrative (that’s what they keep calling it, a fucking _narrative_ ) about how Mickey and Iggy had grown up under the oppressive thumb of their good-for-nothing, criminal father; how they’d been forced to commit acts of crime, under fear of pain or death, since they were children, how all that hate and abuse had turned _them_ into criminals, too, but it’s not their fault, not really, because they’d never had a choice. 

The words are true, nothing Iggy and Mickey tell their public defenders is technically a lie, but the whole story comes out feeling like one all the same. 

Mickey’s not sure if there’s going to be an actual trial, or if their lawyers are going to work it out so they can go straight to sentencing, but they’re stuck in prison waiting to find out either way, because it’s not like the two of them can afford bail. Mandy’s the only person they contact after it all goes down, mostly just to let her know that she’ll be in charge of the house for a little while. She’d called them both selfish assholes and hung up halfway through the conversation. It’s honestly more than Mickey had been expecting. 

His public defender – some chick named Estelle, who has bright blonde hair and green eyes that grate on Mickey’s nerves more than he’d like to admit – convinces him to talk to a shrink, a few days before they have to go in front of a judge. 

“Why the fuck?” Mickey demands, when she first suggests it. “No. No fucking head shrinkers. What the fuck would that even _do_?” 

“It’ll help pad our argument that your father essentially brainwashed you.” She says patiently, not perturbed by Mickey’s outburst or his language – she probably sees a lot of it, in her line of work. When he just keeps shaking his head, she sighs heavily. “Your brother’s already talked to one.” 

“Iggy?” Mickey asks, snorting. “No way.” 

She just hums and nods. “The details are kept confidential, if that helps.” She adds. “The doctor will make an official assessment about your mental capacities and mindset, based on what you tell her, but if there’s anything you don’t want on record, you can tell her that, and she can’t say anything. It’s literally the law.” 

Mickey eventually agrees, because why the fuck not at this point, really. He doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life in prison, especially not when he knows his father’s going to be there, too. If spilling his guts to some middle-aged woman with a notebook is going to get him out of here faster, then he supposes it’s worth the effort. 

She asks him all sorts of shit about his dad, their environment growing up, his mother, his siblings, the violence…everything. Everything that Mickey’s never felt the need to think about, much less discuss, comes out in clipped responses to probing questions. Only, eventually her questions get vaguer and his answers get longer. He figures it’s some sort of shrink-trick, when he realizes what’s happening. Mind-voodoo or some shit. Nothing else could explain the way he opens up to this woman. 

“Shit, lady,” he says at one point, almost laughing because it’s not like he can’t respect the skill she obviously has at her job. “ain’t never spilled my guts like that before, not even to fucking –”

He stops himself before he says it, but of course she catches the slip. 

“To who?” She asks gently, sitting back like she’s willing to wait forever if that’s how long it takes. 

“No one.” He bites. He wishes he could smoke in here. Fuck, he’d kill for a fucking cigarette at this point. 

“Someone you used to love?” She guesses. Mickey doesn’t know what his face does, but he must have some sort of tell, because she reads him easily. “Someone you _do_ love.” And it’s not a question. “Someone you left behind to take this job with your father?” 

“Fuck you.” Mickey says, mostly out of habit. His brain is too busy trying to figure a way out of this, trying to decide _if_ he wants a way out of this. 

She just smiles at him, calmly. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?” She asks. “Maybe something you’ve never felt comfortable saying to anyone else before?”

Mickey’s heart fucking stops. She knows. She fucking _knows_. Just like Mandy had somehow figured it out, this bitch has, too. Only Mandy, Mandy makes _sense_ , because there’d been clues and interactions and shit Mickey probably should have done a better job hiding but hadn’t, because he loves Ian and that had distracted him. But this bitch, she hasn’t seen anything, hasn’t talked to anyone except _him_ , and how the fuck could she know, just from that? 

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re trying to get at, lady,” he starts, but she just shakes her head firmly and quirks an eyebrow. “Fuck.” He breathes, realizing suddenly that he’s already lost. “ _Fuck_.” 

“Indeed.” She agrees, not without a touch of ironic humor, and Mickey can’t help it when he chuckles a little. 

“My-my lawyer said that nothing I say here can get out, right?” Mickey clings to the one thing that might make this whole shit storm alright. “Like, if I tell you not to, you can’t say anything to anyone about it. Right?” 

“It’s called doctor-patient confidentiality,” she says evenly, and Mickey sits forward a little bit, absorbing every word. “I would lose my job if I were to repeat anything that you said to me here. And, you seem like an interesting guy, Mr. Milkovich, but you’re not worth me destroying my career.”

He finds himself unbelievably calmed by those words. If there’s one thing he’ll always believe in, it’s people’s selfish natures. But still, it’s a big thing, and he has to press, “And there’s no exception to that? The judge can’t make you, like…” he waves a hand, not really sure what he’s asking. 

“The only scenario in which I could tell anyone something you say to me here, in this room, is if you confide in me that you’re planning on hurting someone.” She elaborates. “That’s the only exception.” 

Mickey nods a few times, taking in everything she’s said and what it means. They go back and forth for a while after that – she switches the conversation over to Terry again, and Mickey never thought talking about his father would be a relief, but right now it is. 

She asks him a few questions about Mandy, how they’d gotten along over the years, if he ever felt the need to protect her from their father (fucking _duh_ ), and it’s in the middle of that, some story about Terry backhanding him when he was a kid because he’d pissed him off on purpose so he’d leave Mandy alone, that he blurts, “She’s the only other person who knows.” 

“Knows what?” The doctor asks steadily, and she’s playing it so well that Mickey can almost pretend that she hasn’t already figured it out. 

“That I’m gay.” 

It’s literally the first time he’s ever said the words out loud. His heart feels like it’s going to explode. His skin is suddenly too tight, and he starts to itch all over. His mouth is dry, he doesn’t think he can breathe. 

Only…only he does keep breathing. The shrink-doctor calmly hands him a glass of water, and Mickey takes it with shaking hands. He lets it slide down his throat and manages to not choke and die. He keeps breathing, long after he thought he would if he ever said those words to anyone. 

“Did you tell your sister that you were gay?” The doctor asks, after allowing a few minutes for Mickey’s heartrate to return to something in the realm of normal. “Or did she find out some other way?” 

“The guy…” Mickey inhales deeply. He’s going to say this, he’s going to talk, but he can’t look at her while he does. His gaze remains firmly on a potted plant sitting in the corner. “The guy I’ve been…whatever…”

“Your guy?” She offers, and Mickey actually smiles a little, at least half a real one, because he kind of likes the way that sounds. 

“Sure, my guy.” He huffs like he doesn’t care one way or another, what they call Ian. “He’s Mandy’s best friend. She used to pretend to date him, so the fag bashers at our high school wouldn’t give him crap. Fuck. Then the asshole went and grew six inches overnight, got all fucking buff and shit, didn’t need Mandy playing his beard anymore. Then she started fucking his brother and, shit, I’m pretty sure he told him about us, too, at some point. Never said anything about it, though. But I guess it made us…made me…I don’t know. Stop trying so hard to pretend. His family’s complicated as fucking shit, but they care about each other, y’know? Like actually, really fucking care. Didn’t feel like we had to hide so much.” 

She takes a few minutes to parse out the intricacies of that pathetically jumbled run-on sentence, scribbling some notes as she works through the dynamics of Mickey and Ian’s families without hearing any names besides Mandy’s. Mickey knows she can’t say anything – fuck, he wouldn’t be talking about any of this if he didn’t believe that – but it’s different. He’ll trust her with his shit, but Ian’s name, Ian’s family… that’s something else entirely, and no matter how much he trusts that this will stay just between them, there are always contingencies that can’t be accounted for, and Mickey won’t risk that. Won’t risk _Ian_ like that. She must realize what he’s doing, and why, and it’s probably telling as shit, but it’s not like he’s gonna fucking quit it just so he can come off a little less crazy. 

“So at least some people in his family knew about the two of you?” She questions. 

“No.” He bites automatically, and then sighs heavily. “I think his brother did, yeah.” 

“But he never said anything to anyone, not even your sister, whom he was in some kind of relationship with?” 

The question, the way she spells it out bluntly like that, makes him pause. “Nah, I guess not.” He’s not sure he likes admitting that. “It ain’t like he gave a shit about me, alright? He wasn’t gonna out his fucking brother just to throw a wrench into my life.” 

“Tell me more about his family.” She manages to say it like a suggestion, rather than an command. “He has a lot of siblings, right?” Mickey nods. 

“Yeah.” He sniffs, and decides abruptly to expand without being prompted. “Five. He’s kinda in the middle, two older, three younger.”

“And his parents?” 

“Dad’s a miserable, waste of space, alcoholic con artist,” Mickey snorts, finding it remarkably easy to talk about hating Frank. “Doesn’t do shit for any of them. I mean, he ain’t nothin’ like the sack of shit bastard I got saddled with, but he’s still fucking worthless.” He takes a breath. “Honestly don’t know shit about their mom. She ain’t around. Maybe dead. None of ‘em ever really talk about it.” 

“So the six of them live alone?” She presses. “With foster parents?”

“Older sister,” he grunts, not sure why the fuck Ian’s family is so goddamn interesting to her, but talking about the Gallaghers sure as shit beats talking about his own fucked-up childhood. “She’s twenty-something, their legal guardian now, but I’m pretty sure it’s been just them taking care of each other their whole lives. That’s what my…that’s what he says, anyway. What everyone says, honestly.” 

“So, you like spending time with them? His family?”

Mickey scrunches his face at that. “I ain’t too fond of the brother that’s fucking Mandy.” 

She smiles a little, softly. “Understandable. What about the rest of them?” 

Mickey exhales slowly. “Older sister does good by them. Better parent than a lot of people get in actual parents.” He thinks about the Gallagher clan, more than he ever really has before. “His younger brother and sister are alright. Brother’s a fucking trip, actually. Pretty cool kid. The youngest one’s a fucking _toddler_ , so there ain’t much to judge there.” 

“What’s the biggest difference, do you think, between their family and yours?” She asks it at the same steady pace she’s been prying everything else out of him, but suddenly Mickey realizes why she’s been so stuck on this, Ian’s family and how Mickey feels about them. 

“They fucking care about each other,” he snaps, angry at her for pulling this out of him. Angrier still because now he has to say it out loud, all of it. “they talk, and bond, and do more than just fucking survive. Shit. I’d kill for Mandy, even my shithead brothers, but y’think I’ve ever actually had a fucking _conversation_ with any of them? Nah, not a chance. We don’t fucking do that. _They_ do. His whole fucking family talks, like a goddamn soap opera half the time, and…and they fucking forgive each other, alright? They don’t hate each other. Not for anything. Fuck, even his dad didn’t give a shit when he caught us fucking. Hell, I don’t think he even ever said anything about it. My dad…my dad’d fucking kill me if he found out. He’d…he’d literally kill me. That’s why, that’s why we couldn’t do it anymore, y’know? Me and my…me and him. We couldn’t be together. Fuck, we were never really together. He wanted to be. Think maybe I did, too, but we couldn’t. Not with my dad around. Too fucking risky. And he deserved more than that, alright? He’s still so fucking young and he’ll find someone worth more than my sorry ass. It’ll be good. It’s good that I’m gone, that he’s gone, that we’re over. Never woulda worked out anyway. Never coulda.” 

The doctor leans back in her seat, eyes wide but not nearly as surprised as Mickey might have expected. He presses the palms of his hands harshly against his own eyes as soon as he feels the tears trying to prickle up. 

“Fuck you.” He breathes into the sudden silence. The words don’t come out nearly as menacing as he wants them to. 

She just smiles at him, calm and understanding. “I think I have everything I need to make a statement to the judge now, Mr. Milkovich.” 

***

Mickey and Iggy both get a year, with the possibility of parole after six months. 

They both get sentenced to a minimum-security prison, sixty miles away from the max pen their father is going to be stuck in for the next two and a half decades. 

The only catch is that they both have to meet with a shrink twice a month for the duration of their imprisonment. The judge says he’s doing it for everyone; that Mickey and Iggy will benefit from the therapy and that the state of Illinois will feel a lot better about letting them back into society if a professional deems them no longer a threat to it. 

Mickey’s not thrilled about the setup, but he knows it could have been a hell of a lot worse, so he doesn’t complain. Iggy nudges his shoulder right after their sentencing, before the courtroom guards separate them. “Never thought dad fucking us up would come in handy, huh?” He’s smiling widely because he’s older than Mickey, already has a non-juvenile rap sheet, and hell yeah it could have gone a _lot_ worse for him. 

“We’ll toast the bastard as soon as we get out.” Mickey snorts, but can’t help it when he feels relief on his brother’s behalf. And maybe that’s something like progress; him actually giving a shit about someone other than Ian or Mandy. 

***

There’s not a lot to do in prison, honestly. It’s just like juvie, only without the fucking. Not that he couldn’t have found someone to bang in this shithole if he wanted, but he figures it’s just easier to keep to himself. It’s minimum security, so it’s not like he has to join a gang or fuck the guards to stay alive. Mostly he just works out, smokes cigarettes, and even reads occasionally, when there’s literally nothing else to occupy his time and he feels like he’s going to go insane if he doesn’t do fucking _something_. 

It’s his cellmate that suggests he studies for his GED. 

“I took it last time I was in,” the guy – tall, rail thin, with dirty blonde hair, and probably pushing fifty – offers as an explanation, “managed to get an actual decent job when I got out. Full time with benefits and shit.” 

“So why are you back in here?” Mickey bites, hoping his cruelty will get this guy off his fucking back. “If you got your life all squared up?”

“Addiction is a tough demon to carry.” He says easily, foot tapping rhythmically against the top bunk. “It starts out harmless enough, y’know? Pop a couple pills at a party, don’t think it’s gonna be more than that. Always is, though. Next thing I know, doctors are pulling a needle out of my arm and telling me I’m lucky to be alive. Then Tammy’s crying and I’m back here. It never really ends.” 

“You could fucking stop shooting up.” Mickey suggests coldly.

“And you could get your GED.” The guy – Greg, he thinks – counters lightly. “Be something more when you get out of this place.” 

“What? Do you get, like, extra points for talking like a motivational cunt rag?” Mickey growls. “Shut the fuck up.”

***

“You might as well do _something_ useful while you’re in here.” Mandy pulls a face at him when Mickey won’t stop bitching about his Zen-loving roommate and some of the shit he spouts off about. “What else do you have going on, honestly?” 

He flicks her off from behind the glass. She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t put the phone down. He and Iggy have been in here two months, and this is the first time she’s visited. And it’s not like he can blame her for not coming down more often – they’re hours away from Chicago, she’s got a fulltime job, bills to pay now that no one else is around to help with the house, and no car – but fuck it, he’s kind of missed her. 

“They’re making me talk to someone.” He finds himself sharing, not sure exactly what prompts him to do so, just that it feels like the right thing to say in the moment. 

“Who? A shrink?” She asks, and she’s joking, of course she’s joking, but when Mickey’s expression stays earnest, hers eventually settles into wide-eyed realization. “Fuck, Mickey. Seriously?” 

“Iggy, too.” He nods. 

“Well, damn.” She breathes. “Does that mean you’re gonna be nice by the time you get out?” 

He huffs. “Don’t fucking count on it.” 

They spend a few minutes talking about Colin and the girl he’d met, the baby they’re going to have, and how they’ll probably never see the fucker again. Then there’s no easy topic of small talk left to delve into, and Mickey takes a single, shuddering breath and goes for broke. 

“Hear anything from Gallagher lately?” 

Mandy knows exactly what he’s asking, but he’d lied to her for years and she’s still kinda pissed at him about it. “Lip’s doing well in college.” 

Mickey glares. “Not the Gallagher I give a shit about.”

“I heard something about Frank needing a new liver.” She tosses out, faux-casually. “And Debbie told me Fiona’s fucking her boss.” 

“That’s not…” but he trails off, because that doesn’t make sense. “Wait, I thought they moved to Michigan or some shit. The whole lot of ‘em.” 

Mandy’s expression finally softens, as she realizes how much Mickey has missed in the time he’s been away. “They were going to.” She confirms, taking a breath. “But I guess it didn’t work out. Fiona’s boyfriend, the one with two names? He bailed on them.” 

Mickey’s heart speeds up a little, at what that implies. “So, do you still talk to…”

But Mandy’s wearing this look now, like she’s sad about something and feels sorry for him, at the same time. Mickey’s heart leaps into his throat, because there’s a lot of things that could mean, and not a single one of them is good. “Fucking _what_?” He demands, when she doesn’t say anything on her own. 

“Ian left, Mick.” She says, voice tinged with her own leftover sadness. “Not long after you and Iggy got busted with dad.” 

Mickey exhales shakily. “Know where he went?” 

“No.” she says honestly. “I don’t think Lip or any of the others do, either.” 

“Fuck.” Mickey breathes. 

“Yeah.” Mandy agrees with a sarcastic chuckle. “Fuck.” 

***

“If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?” 

His prison shrink isn’t anything like the one he’d talked to before getting sent away. This one’s a dude, for starters. He’s younger than Mickey thinks someone should have to be in order to study human behavior and make judgements about people’s lives and decisions – maybe late-twenties, tops. He’s muscular and totally bald, tough not in an unattractive kind of way, Mickey has to admit. Not _his_ type, but hot all the same. 

He also loves opening up their sessions with pointless fucking questions. 

“You mean if I could snap my fucking fingers and not be gay anymore, would I do it?” Mickey gets right to the point, because sometimes when he cuts through the bull, Dr. Shit-For-Brains (his real name’s Danny) will let him out of their session early. 

“Why did you go straight to that?” He asks, sounding curious, but in a fake kind of way, like he thinks he already knows what Mickey’s going to say. 

“Because it’s the only thing I _couldn’t_ fucking change.” 

His eyebrows raise slightly, some genuine surprise seeping through. “What do you mean?” He asks, leaning forward slightly, resting his heavily tattooed arms on his knees. 

Danny always wears button-down shirts with fancy pants or nice jeans, depending on the day, but when he rolls his sleeves up – and the A/C in this place sucks monkey sacks, so he always fucking does – it’s impossible not to notice the tattoos all over his arms. Full sleeves from wrist to…well, at least elbow, probably farther up than that, too. Mickey’s never had a _thing_ for tattoos, doesn’t really give a shit what people choose to permanently adhere to their bodies, honestly (how could he, with the words on his own knuckles?) but he finds his eyes drawn to the designs inked all over this guy. Some are colorful, others are solid black with wide open spaces between them, but they blend together almost seamlessly. Mickey’s curious about what else he has on him. 

“I mean…fuck,” he starts with an unamused laugh, “what do people ever want to change about themselves? The shit they _do_ , mostly, right? Don’t wanna be addicts anymore, don’t wanna be criminals anymore, don’t wanna beat on their kids because they had a bad fucking day, whatever. But that’s all shit people _can_ change, if they gave two fucks. I can’t change the fact that I like dick. And yeah, it makes my life fucking complicated as shit most of the time, but I wouldn’t fucking change it, even if I could.” 

“Because you’re okay with who you are?” Danny suggests. 

Mickey rolls his eyes. “I’m okay with what it’s gotten me.” 

“The guy you’re in love with?” He prompts. He always tries to get Mickey to talk about Ian. So far, Mickey’s held out. 

“Maybe.” He gives a little today. Mandy’s visit is still fucking with him. 

“Something on your mind, Mickey?” Fucking shrinks, Mickey thinks. Goddamn annoying shits, every last one of them. 

“My sister stopped by a few days ago,” he relents, staring at one of brighter designs on Danny’s left arm. Some kind of weird looking flower. “told me that he, the guy I…y’know. He left town.”

Danny hums. “Why do you think he did that?” 

“I really don’t fucking know.” Mickey’s laugh sounds hollow to his own ears. “If I was still there, I’d say it probably woulda been ‘cause of me. But he knew I’d gotten locked up, before he left. So…I don’t know, man. I really don’t.” 

Danny has a lot of things to say about that, and they talk for the rest of the session about why Ian might have wanted to run from him, why Mickey had pulled away from _him_ so much, what Terry had to do with all of that, and how things might be different for Mickey (with or without Ian) once he gets out. 

He’s tired by the time they’re done. Exhausted in a way that only comes from talking so long and hard about your fucking _feelings_. That’s the only reason he doesn’t throw a shit fit when he gets back to his cell and finds a GED study guide on his bunk. 

***

Mickey gets released six months, three weeks and four days after he gets sent in. That’s almost eight months after he’d left with his father and brothers for the ill-fated run that had changed the course of his life. 

He thinks about going back to Chicago immediately, because of course he fucking wants to, but he decides to stick around. Iggy won’t be out for another couple months – idiot had gone off a few weeks back and gotten into a fight, defending his cellmate from some shitheads trying to mess with him, and had gotten his possibility for parole pushed back. 

So, for the time being at least, Mickey’s on his own. 

Greg, his motivational guru of a cellmate, had told him that his wife would be willing to put him up for a while, as long as he got a job and took the GED. In the end, Mickey considers it a small price to pay for free room and board. 

He passes on his fist try. Only a few points above the required minimum, but still. 

Besides loving Ian and protecting Mandy, it’s probably the biggest accomplishment of his life. 

***

The city he’s living in is fucking _small_. 

It’s barely a city at all, and he fucking hates every single goddamn minute of being there. Hates the way everyone seems to know each other, and how they talk endlessly about who’s fucking who, who’s pregnant, who’s cheating, and just generally what’s happening in other people’s lives. 

He hates that a random group of teenagers feels the need to duck and hide when he walks past them on the street because they don’t want him to see that they’re smoking a joint. Like he hadn’t been able to smell it fifty feet away. Like he _gives_ a shit. 

He actually doesn’t hate the part-time job he manages to snag at a local grocery store. The owners are old and trusting (what _is_ it with people around here?) and tell him that he can come in after hours to stock shelves. They take the cash to the bank every night, anyway, they say with matching chuckles, so it’s not like there’s anything he can steal. Because they apparently don’t get that sometimes people commit random acts of cruelty for no reason at all. 

He’s pretty sure he only gets the job because Greg’s wife – a quiet, homely, determined woman named Tammy – calls in a favor. 

Mickey doesn’t care. Money’s money, after all. 

He hates that no matter what he spends his days doing – sleeping too long because he doesn’t have anywhere to be, going to work, helping Tammy haul groceries out of her minivan, watching endless hours of mundane talk shows, lifting weights (he’d bought a few dumbbells from a pawn shop, because he won’t be here long enough to bother with anything more permanent than that), or just strolling the streets looking for something to do, anything that isn’t illegal – he can’t stop thinking about Ian fucking Gallagher. 

He plays it over and over again in his head – that last day in his bedroom back home, what he’d said, what Ian had wanted, where they might be right now if he’d just said yes. 

Fucking San Francisco. 

Yeah, because two Southside shits like them could ever wind up somewhere like that. 

Ian had been fucking dreaming. 

He’d been dreaming of a life with _Mickey_ , though, and maybe even if they hadn’t made it all the way to the Golden Coast, they’d still be together. 

He thinks about Ian _now_ , too. Where he might be, why the fuck he’d left. 

He’d talked to Danny at length about that, and neither of them had been able to come up with a good reason. 

_“Nah, he ain’t the type to just bail on his family like that.”_ Mickey had defended his long-lost lover at some point during one of their sessions. _“You don’t know that fucking family, man.”_

_“People move on.”_ Danny had countered. _“Sometimes it’s healthy to separate yourself from your past.”_

Mickey had snorted. _“Yeah, I get that that’s about Terry. But I ain’t talkin’ about my daddy issues right now, okay? Ian’s fucking seventeen. He shouldn’t be out there on his own. Not yet.”_

Danny had reluctantly agreed with his point, but it still hadn’t gotten them anywhere. 

***

By the time Iggy gets out, it’s been almost a year since the last time he was in Chicago. 

A whole fucking year away from the shit stain of a city that he loves to hate to call home. 

“I don’t know how you boys do it,” Tammy says to them that last night, graciously feeding them a huge homecooked meal before they get on a Greyhound the next morning, “living in a city like that, with all the noise and the people. Must feel like a can of sardines just walking down the street.”

Iggy laughs a little, though not unkindly. “It’s not New York, Mrs. H.” He points out. “Chicago isn’t as crowded as all that.” 

“It is compared to this place.” She argues, sweeping her arm out to encompass her tiny little city as a whole. 

“Well you’re not wrong there.” Mickey mutters, not really under his breath. Iggy kicks him in the shin, but Tammy just laughs, used to his deadpan humor by now. 

“I’m going to miss having you here, Mickey,” she tells him honestly, “you made me the talk of the town.” 

“Have an affair with Mr. Grayson,” he suggests, “that’ll get the gossip skanks hot and bothered for ya.” 

“And cheat on my Gregory?” She shakes her head, eyes crinkling fondly. “I could never.” 

“Does it count as cheating if one person is in prison?” Iggy asks, mouth half-full of roasted chicken, his forehead crinkling slightly. 

“I don’t think you’re supposed to ask people shit like that, Ig.” Mickey mentions, shooting Tammy an apologetic shrug. 

“Oh, it’s fine.” She insists, though her eyes have gone a little darker – probably thinking about how long it’ll be before Greg comes home. “And it depends on the couple, I suppose. Some would rather not know, I’ve seen that. Harder to pretend when someone turns up pregnant, of course, but I hardly have to worry about that, anymore.” 

“So, it doesn’t count as long as the other person doesn’t know about it?” Iggy questions, and Mickey wants to drop his head in his hands and scowl endlessly at his brother, but Tammy is remarkably patient. Maybe she thinks Iggy is mildly retarded or something, and is humoring him. 

“Sometimes you just have to choose whether or not you’re willing to wait for someone.” She tells them, probably noticing it when Mickey’s attention perks at her words, and how he’s much more invested than Iggy, all of a sudden, in her answers. “What you do while you’re waiting doesn’t matter as much, I don’t think, as what you do once you get them back. For me, it’s always going to be Greg. No matter how many mistakes he makes, or how many years I lose him to a needle or a jailcell, he’ll always have a home in me, once he’s ready to come back to it. That man’s under my skin, always has been. What can you do, really, about something like that?” 

“Yeah.” Mickey echoes, diverting his gaze from hers, focusing solely on pushing his fork into his mashed potatoes. “What can you do?”

___________________________________________________

**Next Time:**

_Iggy actually has the gall to roll his eyes. “Not the fucking dudes thing.” He deadpans, says it like those words wouldn’t have gotten Mickey killed a year ago. “I get that that’s like, biology or whatever.” He shrugs. “I meant Gallagher.” It should actually be comforting, Mickey thinks, but he can’t process his brother’s lack of concern over his sexual preferences. Not when he’d jumped straight to his personal choices. To Ian. “Sure there’s plenty of nice dick out there willing to bend over for you, or whatever.” Iggy insists, even at Mickey’s stone-cold death stare. Iggy’s older than him, and bigger; has never been intimidated by him the way most people outside of his family are. “Gallagher’s all fucked in the head, isn’t he? That’s what Mandy said. You really wanna deal with that?”_

___________________________________________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might have taken some liberties with Mickey and Iggy’s sentencings and the justice system as a whole, but this is a universe where Ian could join the army with a fake ID, which I’ve been told many times is straight up impossible, so, y’know, creative license. :)


	9. Everybody’s Changing and I Don’t Know Why

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the song “Everybody’s Changing” by Keane 
> 
> I know I stayed pretty close to canon throughout the season 3 portion of this fic, but coming into later seasons I stray a little bit more noticeably. I just figured, I’m giving Mickey and Ian the happily ever after they never got in the show…why not apply some of the same BECAUSE I SAID SO CREATIVE LICENCE loopholes to the rest of the Gallaghers? Plus, deleting Sammi from the equation kinda inherently changed a lot on its own. Anyway, hope you enjoy the THIS IS HOW I WANTED IT TO HAPPEN LET THEM BE HAPPY of it all, :)
> 
> As always, thoughts are love

**\--IX--**

_Everybody’s Changing and I Don’t Know Why_

***

The first thing Mickey notices about his childhood home, as soon as he steps over the threshold after a year of being away, is how goddamn _clean_ everything is. Clean and fucking _homey_. 

Mandy, apparently, has taken to having the place all to herself, because there’s a femininity to the space now that hasn’t ever been there before, as far as Mickey can remember. Not even when their mom had been alive, he doesn’t think, though he’d been pretty young, and his memories on that front might be a little distorted. 

It’s not even like she’s doused the place in pink lace or hung pictures of flowers on the walls – Mandy’s never been, and never will be, that much of a girly girl – its smaller things, here and there, that blend together seamlessly to make the trash pit they’d been raised in actually look and feel like a place you’d want to come home to every night. 

The couch in the living room isn’t new, but it’s also not the same one Ian had fucked him on once upon a time, either. This one, clearly a hand-me-down or garbage-picking find, is light blue, soft and plush, and longer than the other had been. That one spot of brightness had maybe spurred the rest of the new décor, because that’s a big part of it, Mickey’s beginning to notice as he looks around – the place is brighter than it ever has been before. 

There are decorative pillows on the couch, and even a blanket tossed over the back. The old recliner is gone, and one of those ridiculously large, circular, wicker chairs is resting in its stead. The walls look brighter, too, like maybe she’d repainted them at some point, and there are pictures hung strategically over where Mickey knows there’d been bullet holes.

“Holy fuck.” He breathes, stopping dead in the center of the living room, trying to take it all in. “Holy fuck, Mandy.”

“What’d you do to this place?” Iggy’s eyes are as wide and astounded as Mickey’s. 

Their sister just shrugs, pushing past them and into the kitchen. “Hey, you get locked up for a year, you forfeit your right to decorating decisions.” 

“I mean, it looks good.” Mickey tells her, figuring she deserves to hear that much – plus, y’know, it fucking _does_. “Did you do anything to my room?” 

“Hell no.” She responds, coming back into the living room with three beers, already opened. “I’m not going near that shit with a ten-foot pole. Though I did pay someone to come in and make sure there wasn’t anything biodegradable under either of your beds.” She admits. “Found three bologna sandwiches under yours, Ig.” 

The older boy just laughs a little, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah, good thing you caught that.” 

“What’d you do with dad’s room?” Mickey asks, sitting down on the couch, reveling in the fact that he’s home. After all the bullshit, and no matter how different it looks now, he’s finally fucking _home_. 

“Gutted it. Put all his shit in the attic, burned the mattress, painted the walls. If he ever gets out, he’ll be shit outta fuckin’ luck.” Mandy tells him, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch, and sounding rather pleased with herself. 

Iggy tries for the funky circular chair, and nearly falls off twice before he gets his bearings. Their bags are in the middle of the floor – dropped unceremoniously the second they’d come in – but Mandy doesn’t even seem to care. She’d met them at the bus station an hour ago, and the three of them had spent the entire train ride home talking about Mandy’s new job as a receptionist of sorts at a car dealership downtown, Mickey’s four months living with his cellmate’s wife, and Iggy’s newfound passion for culinary arts, born from a long stint in the prison kitchen. 

It’s nice, he thinks; the three of them just catching up like this. Without the dark cloud of their father hanging over their heads, the three youngest Milkovich siblings can actually relax a little. 

“I think I’m gonna try to get a job at a kitchen.” Iggy tells them, staring up at the ceiling because that’s just kind of how you sit in that chair, if you want to rest your head against the back of it.

“Mmm, I know someone who works at Patsy’s Pies.” Mandy tells him. “They might be looking for fry cooks, and I know for a fact they’re not adverse to hiring felons.” 

“Fuck,” Iggy pops up, and the whole chair moves with him. “Fuck,” he exclaims again, less excited and more irritated, “did you get this thing just to fuck with us?” 

Mandy laughs loudly. “Yeah, kinda.” 

Iggy growls and stands up. It looks like he’s drunk even though Mickey knows he’s not. He collapses in between them on the couch, his inherent need for as much personal space as possible apparently trumped by his hatred of having to sit in that chair. “You serious about the diner, Mands? ‘Cause that’d be fucking awesome.” 

“Yeah. Lip’s sister started working there after she got arrested.” Mandy explains, and Mickey hates how eager he becomes, at even that small mention of the Gallaghers. “The manager has a soft spot for criminals, I guess.” 

“Lucky fucking me.” Iggy grins wide, and finishes off the last of his beer in one gulp. “Alright douchebags, I’mma go take the longest fucking shower I’ve had in a year. See ya in an hour.” 

“If you use up all the hot water I’ll cut your fucking testicles off.” Mandy shouts after him, to which Iggy responds by flipping her the bird over his shoulder. 

He’s not in the bathroom for ten seconds before there’s a knock on the front door, distracting Mandy from whatever she’d turned to say to Mickey, the moment the two of them had been left alone together. “Shit,” she mutters under her breath, “that’s probably Lip.” 

“You’re still fucking that asshole?” Mickey hears himself asking, and for once his interest in a Gallagher isn’t directly tied to Ian. He’s genuinely shocked that the two of them had stayed together after the guy’s first year in college.

“No.” She tells him, extinguishing that shock pretty quick. “We just hang out sometimes when he’s on break.” 

“Huh.” Mickey snorts. “Never took you for a side piece.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Mandy punches him in the arm, hard. Mickey rubs at the spot as she gets up and opens the door. 

Ian’s brother looks pretty much the same as Mickey remembers. Maybe a little broader in the shoulders, with a few more of those stress-lines permanently etched into the skin around his eyes, but mostly the same. 

“Mickey.” He greets with a nod. Mandy must have told him he was getting out, because he doesn’t seem surprised to see him sitting there. “How was prison?” 

“Oh, fucking daisies and sunshine.” He drawls sarcastically. “How’s whatever girl you’re fucking who isn’t my sister?” 

“Mick.” Mandy hisses. 

“How’s whatever dude you’re fucking who isn’t my brother?” Lip counters, taking the moment from zero to _someone’s about to die_ really damn quick. Mickey jumps to his feet, leaving his half-empty beer bottle forgotten on the coffee table as he squares his shoulders into Lip’s personal space. “Do they call it fucking in prison, or is more just like paying your dues?” Mickey all but bares his teeth at the other boy. Lip doesn’t back down. “Do you even fucking care what’s going on with Ian? Huh?”

Something about his tone is different now. It takes Mickey a second to hear it, between the blood pumping through his own ears and the way his brain tries immediately to sort out what those words actually mean, coming from the second-eldest Gallagher sibling, but eventually he settles on identifying it is desperation. Desperation hidden well behind anger and moxy, but Mickey knows what he hears. 

“Calm down,” Mandy’s saying, and it takes him a second to realize she’s not actually talking to him this time. Her hand is wrapped around Lip’s arm, and her words are for him, not Mickey. “I haven’t told him anything about it yet, okay? He doesn’t know.” 

“Don’t know what?” Mickey spits, eyes darting between both of them as his heartrate increases. “What the fuck’s going on?” 

Lip’s expression softens a little, and he tilts his head back as he runs a hand over his face. “Some…some shit happened with Ian while you were gone.” He says unsteadily, glancing at Mandy. “I thought she…I thought she woulda told you, already.” 

“I didn’t wanna say anything in front of Iggy.” Mandy explains. “And I didn’t want to tell you earlier, while you were still in jail, Mick, because I fucking _know_ you, okay, and you would have tried to bust out or some other stupid shit, and I wanted to get you back home in one piece.” 

“What the fuck,” he repeats, slower this time, because apparently both of them are stupid as rocks, “is going on?” 

Lip takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair, and then biting his lip for just a second. “Ian left not long after you did.” He says, and Mickey just nods, attention honed in on Ian’s brother. 

“I knew that.” 

“He, um, he joined the army, Mick.” That comes from Mandy, plastered now to Lip’s side, like she’s afraid of doing this part alone. 

“The fuck?” the older Milkovich balks. “How? You gotta be eighteen.” 

Lip sighs. He’s probably been through this before with other people, but it’s the first fucking time Mickey’s hearing about it and he’s going to damn well get all the details. “He enlisted under a fake name.” He explains. “My name, actually, but I didn’t know that until the MPs came looking for him.” 

Mickey shoots his sister a desperate glance. 

“Military police.” She explains. Mickey nods once, firmly, to let them know that he understands and they should keep going. 

“They wanted him for that, and for going AWOL, and trying to steal a helicopter and, hell, I think some other shit, too.” Lips lets out a deep breath. “He came back to Chicago after a couple months. We think he was staying with Ned for a while, but we don’t really know for sure. We didn’t see him again until Liam almost died.” 

“What the fuck?” Mickey exclaims, this time at Mandy. “You didn’t tell me that? The _fuck_?”

“There’s more.” She says, softly now, and still afraid. 

“He wasn’t…he was different.” Lip tells him this, looking so pained that Mickey forgets all about the shit he’d tried to start just a couple minutes before. “We didn’t…we didn’t see it at first. Didn’t want to, maybe, but…he’s sick, Mickey.” 

“Sick?” His eyes go wide, and he can feel the blood draining from his face. “The fuck do you mean _sick_? Like, like he’s got cancer or something?”

“No, no nothing like that.” Mandy immediately assures him, taking a step closer, so she’s at his side now, instead of Lip’s. And the other boy doesn’t even look bothered by that, like maybe it’s that fucking obvious, how close Mickey is to _losing_ it. 

“He’s bipolar.” Lip says, words coming out in a rush. “Like our mom. We recognized the signs, and he got diagnosed, but –”

“Bi-fucking what?” Mickey snaps, cutting the other boy off mid-explanation. “What the fuck –”

“It’s manic depression, Mick.” Mandy explains to him softly, right at his elbow now. “It’s a mental disease.” 

“High-highs, followed by low-lows.” Lips explains. “It’s like…like being on a coke and heroin binge for weeks on end, never coming down, until finally you crash so hard you literally want to kill yourself. Only times a hundred and with the occasional bout of extreme paranoia thrown in for fun.” He chuckles humorlessly. “I’ve got a book that kind of explains it better if you want.” 

“I don’t wanna read a fucking book.” Mickey snaps. “I wanna know where the fuck he _is_.” 

“We don’t know.” Lip says evenly, like it’s easy somehow to admit this, like he’s said it so many times that it’s become something standard and accepted. “He…jesus, he was so fucking different when he came back. Dancing at this club, going home with guys that…I know you probably don’t wanna hear this, but it wasn’t about him _wanting_ any’a that shit, y’know? It’s the fucking disease. Hypersexuality, impulsiveness, irrationality. And then there’s this whole thing where they try to temper the extremes with drugs and alcohol, try to…to stamp out what they’re feeling, when it gets to be too much, but usually that just makes it worse.” 

Mickey tries to picture it, tries to picture Ian like that. He really doesn’t like what his imagination comes up with. “So, he was just, what? Out fucking rich old dudes, taking _stupid_ fucking risks, getting high with goddamn strangers and you all just let him do it?” 

“There’s no stopping someone who’s bipolar when they get like that, Mickey.” Lip snaps at him, and he doesn’t even care about the guilt he can hear in Ian’s brother’s tone. It’s not enough, not by a mile, if he’d still allowed this to happen. “It’s called being manic. They can’t see around it, and nothing can stop it. _No one_ can stop it.” 

“Liam almost died, Mick.” Mandy says, and he’s pretty sure it’s the second time he’s heard that, but this time he actually processes what it means. “They had a lot of stuff going on, for a while.” 

“The little dude alright?” Mickey asks, because he does care about Gallaghers other than Ian. At least the small ones that don’t piss him off. 

“He is now.” Lip says evenly. 

“And we tried, we all tried so fucking hard to get Ian to see someone.” Mandy presses. “And he did, eventually. After some shit went down, we got him to a doctor, and they told him what it was, but he…he _really_ didn’t want to hear it.” 

“He wouldn’t take his meds, flushed the first batch he got and refused to get more.” Lip keeps going, shattering Mickey’s heart a little more with every word. “Then one day, he decided to go to this funeral. No one he knew, just some random solider.” 

“Only those South Burrow Baptist Church assholes were there protesting.” Mandy picks up the story, because Lip’s having a hard time at this point, retelling it. “And Ian lost it on a few of them. Beat the shit out of them.” 

“Well, they deserved it.” Mickey points out. Like most civilized human beings, he hates that group and everything they pretend to stand for. 

“Yeah.” Lip agrees, half-heartedly at best. “Only Ian got arrested and the MPs found him and sent him to fucking army jail.” 

“Well, at least me and him have that in common now.” Mickey smiles tightly, taking a moment to catch his breath. “Now I assume this story ends with Ian getting some fucking help, right? I mean, you guys are calling this thing, this bipolar thing, a disease, right? Well, diseases have cures. Pills and shit he can take to make it go away? You said _meds_ , earlier.” 

“Meds that control the symptoms,” Lip tells him, “not cure the disorder.” 

“So, it’s manageable.” Mickey latches onto that, to the fact that Ian isn’t lost to him forever. “He takes some fucking pills and it’s better, right?” 

“Yeah, but it’ll always be there.” Lip presses, like he thinks it’s really important that Mickey gets this part. And Mickey, he hates Ian’s brother most of the time, but he figures he understands this better than Mickey does, at least for now, so he listens to what he’s saying. “Even with the pills, there’ll still be mood swings, good days and bad days, things you have to _watch_ for –”

“So we’ll fucking watch for them.” Mickey interrupts, impatient now that he’s caught up on what’s going on. “ _I’ll_ watch for them.” He amends, rolling his eyes at the way both Lip and Mandy’s eyes go wide at that. Like they’re fucking surprised Mickey is planning on sticking with Ian through this. But, at this point, he’s been pining after the guy for a year – longer than that, if you count their shared youth – and he’s not about to abandon all of that because Ian’s got some crazy shit going on in his brain. “Now, you still haven’t told me where he is.” 

Lip had actually, earlier – he’d said _I don’t know_ , and Mickey’s heart had stopped, but there has to be an explanation for that. Something other than the obvious. 

“The army released him when they found out about his condition.” Mandy’s talking now, so quiet that Mickey can barely hear her. “We went to pick him up that morning, but he was already gone.” 

“Gone where?” Mickey demands, throat dry. 

“He took off with our mom.” Lip’s teeth are clenched so tight Mickey thinks he can hear them grinding. “The only other un-medicated bipolar person we know.” 

His stomach drops, trying to imagine two people like that out in the world alone together. He doesn’t know much about Ian’s disorder, he’ll admit to that, but Lip had compared it to a bender earlier, and if there’s one thing Mickey _does_ understand, what he’s seen too many times to count, it’s what addicts are like when they feed off each other. 

“How long ago was that?” He asks quietly, mostly terrified of the answer. 

Lip and Mandy share a look, and then glance back at Mickey together, like they both already know how much this is going to hurt him. 

“A little over six months.” 

***

Mickey tries to find Ian. He really, _really_ fucking tries. 

He tries things that Lip and Fiona, even Mandy, haven’t thought of. 

He puts Ian’s name, _Monica’s_ name, out there. To all the contacts and connections he still has. To every single person he knows – from criminals to drug addicts to gamblers, just trying to make a buck – hoping that someone, _anyone_ , will come up with something hot enough for them to follow. 

None of it pans out. 

Not a single whisper in the depths of Chicago or its surrounding areas so much as stirs at Mickey’s blatant plea. 

He gets a few false-starts, a couple maybe-kinda-this-might-be-a-thing’s. But nothing sticks. They all fall flat. 

Ian’s in the fucking wind. 

And he doesn’t even know that Mickey’s out now, and looking for him. 

The youngest Milkovich boy likes to think that maybe Ian would come home, if he knew that Mickey was back now, but Lip’s been talking to him, a lot lately, about what _bipolar_ actually is. What it means and what it does to those affected by it, and sometimes Mickey’s not so sure. 

He reads the book Lip gives him. Then he finds more, so many more, and websites and chatrooms and fucking self-help lines that he can’t help but call, and then he gets it even more, more than he’d ever wanted to. 

If Ian’s still lost like that, deep in the throes of an illness that makes him feel invincible, then there’s no reaching him, that what everyone says. Even if he were here, right where he belongs at home and by Mickey’s side, there’d be no reaching him. 

That’s the disease, Lip and Fiona – hell, Debbie and Carl, too – tell him all the time. And Ian will be lost to it until he decides to get help. 

The decision is Ian’s, they all recite the literature like parrots, and Mickey hates them. 

He fucking hates them because he’s _here_ now. He’s back, willing and wanting, and if Ian were just _with_ him, manic or not, Mickey would be able to convince him to get help. 

Mickey would take care of him, the way family does. 

They don’t believe him, not even when he drunkenly screams it at them one night, but they don’t _get_ it, don’t understand. 

He’d do anything to have Ian home with him again. 

Anything at all. 

***

“Why are you so hung up on Gallagher?” Iggy asks him one night, the two of them drinking and playing video games together, almost like it’s normal. 

“Because I fucking love him.” Mickey sighs, not even glancing over to see his brother’s reaction. 

Iggy’s never been the ponder-in-silence type. “Love like...?” He trails off, leaving the clear question hanging. 

“Like I love the guy.” Mickey gulps. He’s drunk and pissed and in so much pain that he can barely breathe most days, but none of that cancels out the fact that this is the first time he’s ever said these words to anyone not getting paid to hear them. “In a really fucking gay kinda way. You gotta problem with that?” 

Iggy just stares at him for a few long moments, and eventually Mickey can’t take it anymore. He pauses their game and glances over. “Just fucking say it already.” He implores, skin itching with anticipation. 

It takes a couple more seconds, but eventually Iggy grins widely. “Kinda always had a feeling.” 

Mickey blinks at his brother a few times. Then a few more. “Fuck you. No you didn’t.” 

Iggy just laughs, takes a sip from the bottle of Jameson he’s been hording – fucking asshole, – and grins even wider. “Yes I did.” 

“Fuck you.” Mickey repeats, shaking a little, because his body hasn’t properly caught up to the fact that this isn’t a fight-or-flight situation, after all. 

“Fuck Gallagher.” Iggy appropriately, infuriatingly, corrects. “You miss the guy?” His words aren’t mocking, but they aren’t one hundred percent sincere yet, either. 

Mickey hadn’t known what he’d been expecting – hadn’t planned for this at all – but Iggy’s half-hearted sympathy sure as fuck hadn’t been on the list. 

He swallows thickly. “Yeah.” 

“You sure you want that, man?” Iggy’s question sounds genuine enough, no mocking cadence or underlying hate, but Mickey’s eyes still narrow. 

“Don’t exactly have a choice.” 

Iggy actually has the gall to roll his eyes. “Not the fucking dudes thing.” He deadpans, says it like those words wouldn’t have gotten Mickey killed a year ago. “I get that that’s like, biology or whatever.” He shrugs. “I meant Gallagher.” It should actually be comforting, Mickey thinks, but he can’t process his brother’s lack of concern over his sexual preferences. Not when he’d jumped straight to his personal choices. To _Ian_. “Sure there’s plenty of nice dick out there willing to bend over for you, or whatever.” Iggy insists, even at Mickey’s stone-cold death stare. Iggy’s older than him, and bigger; has never been intimidated by him the way most people outside of his family are. “Gallagher’s all fucked in the head, isn’t he? That’s what Mandy said. You really wanna deal with that?” 

Mickey punches his brother in the shoulder, as hard as he possibly can. Iggy grunts with the force of it, and rubs the spot a moment later, looking at Mickey with something akin to hurt in his gaze.

“Don’t have a choice.” Mickey spits the words a second time. He means them more, now. More than he ever has before. “Fuck you, Iggy.” 

Iggy doesn’t ask him again, after that night, if Ian fucking Gallagher is worth his time, if Mickey really wants to go through with loving the guy. He’d gotten all the answers he needs, and even Iggy’s smart enough to find the point, once he’s led to it like that. 

A few days later, in the quiet of their childhood home, Iggy walks over to him, palms up and flat, like a surrender. “I called a few of my buddies who joined up right after graduation.” He says nervously, eyes darting around like Mickey’s going to reach for the nearest weapon and beat him to death with it at the slightest provocation. “I told them Gallagher’s name. Asked them to keep an ear out.” 

Mickey swallows thickly. He doesn’t even know what to say to something like that. “Thanks.” He settles on, the word getting caught in the back of his throat and coming out low. “Thanks, Ig.” 

They don’t talk about it again, after that. 

***

Mickey gets a job with Tommy’s construction crew. 

It’s only a seasonal thing, he knows that, but it makes his parole officer happy, and the money ain’t half bad. 

Tommy’s a fucking _douche_ , but Mickey figures that just comes with the territory. 

***

“You could work here.” Kev offers him one night, passing him a shot of whiskey with a shrug, like he doesn’t care about Mickey’s reaction at all, one way or the other. “When the summer dies out. We could always use more bartenders.” 

Mickey downs his shot in one go, absently wishing that he were the type to sip, on fucking anything, because liquor is expensive. And as much as he’d like to cut out on the bill – and as much as he knows Kev and his wife would let him – he’s not going to. 

He doesn’t want Ian coming home to someone who’s just like Frank. 

“No you couldn’t.” He counters, raising his eyebrows suspiciously. 

“Look,” Kev drops all pretenses and drops down to rest his elbows on the edge of the bar, obviously exhausted. “Kate’s moving to Florida with her boyfriend, what’s-his-face, and V told me to offer you the job first, okay?” 

Mickey’s face scrunches up. “Fucking _why_?” 

“Hell if I know.” Kev balks. “She said do it, I don’t totally hate you, so whatever the fuck, man, right? _Shit_.” He laughs shortly, running a hand over his head. “I got two babies and crazy mother-in-law. Like I give a fuck why my wife wants you working here.” 

“You’re kinda pussy-whipped.” Mickey observes, though it’s not entirely unkindly. Actually might come out a little envious, but fuck all if he’s going to admit to that. 

“You got a PO to keep happy, dontchya?” Kev counters, standing upright again and squaring his shoulders like he could take Mickey in a fight, if he were so inclined. “You want the job or not?” 

Mickey doesn’t have it in him to fight about nothing anymore. All his energy, these days, is spent fighting for the things he actually gives a shit about. The people. _Ian_. 

“Yeah.” He finally sighs, looking away. “Fine.” 

He never sees it when Kev’s eyebrows shoot up. Never realizes that’s the moment that changes everything about how he’s seen by the people in his hometown. 

***

“ _Guys_!” 

Mandy’s shout is high and loud, and Mickey and Lip react to it the exact same way: both boys scramble to their feet and sprint as fast as they can across the Milkovich living room and into the kitchen where Mandy’s standing, clutching her cell phone to her ear like it’s some kind of last salvation. 

“Fuck, Ian, where have you been?” She says into the phone’s tiny speaker, and Mickey’s breath stutters to a stop right inside of his chest. 

“Ian, that’s Ian?” Lip steps forward, looking like he wants to take the phone out of Mandy’s hands then and there. But she bats at him, shoos him away with a firm determination and Mickey hates that she’s controlling this, he really does, but it’s also _Mandy_ – his baby sister, who he’s always protected – so when she tries to get Lip to back off, Mickey helps her do it. He pulls at the other guy’s arm, tugs him away from her. 

Her moment, he thinks blindly. This is her moment. 

“Ian!” She shouts after an impossibly long stretch of silence, her face tightening up with fear. They watch on as she listens for another moment. 

“Fuck, let me talk to him.” Lip tries to insist. He’s so fucking desperate, Mickey thinks. He wonders if he’s wearing the same face, if his is worse. 

“Then why did you call?” Mandy’s asking into the speaker. Lip’s expression distorts like he thinks that’s the wrong thing to ask, but Mickey knows it isn’t, not for them. 

Know what someone wants. That’s what their father had always taught them. You have to know what someone wants from you, before you can even try to engage. Quid pro quo. Give and take. The rules of negotiation. 

“Your brother’s here.” Mandy says next, after a few long seconds, pleadingly. “Mickey is, too. He got out of prison. I tried to tell you. I wanted to. Your phone doesn’t work anymore.”

Mickey’s heart stops beating for a second, then it starts up again, too fast in his chest. He knows that Mandy knows what he and Ian are to each other, but this – her using him to try to get more out of this moment – it feels different. Shockingly real. Unbelievably painful. 

He wants Ian to want him. He wants Mandy’s words to mean something to the other boy. He wants them to break through his haze of psychological bullshit and pull him the fuck out of it. He wants Ian to come back for him. 

“Please come home.” She’s pleading now. Every word of the conversation that Mickey can’t hear is like a knife to his gut. “Please just tell us where you are.” 

It’s another few seconds, endless in Mandy’s silence, before she lowers the phone from her ear and shakily presses a button to end the call. 

“He’s sorry, Lip.” She repeats what must have been Ian’s words. Her eyes are on the kitchen floor. Ian’s brother’s breath hitches in the space next to him. “He said he was sorry. And, Mickey.” She looks up at her brother then, eyes wide and shining. “He said…he said you were right about hunting.” 

Mickey breathes heavily for a few seconds after that, the both of them staring at him, like Ian’s words had maybe been a code, something that only Mickey would be able to figure out. 

They realize soon enough that Mickey doesn’t understand anything. Nothing at all. 

***

“Trace the call.” Are Mickey’s first words, once his brain catches up, moves past the intensity of the moment. “Star sixty-nine, or whatever the fuck. Google it. Fucking just…figure out where he was calling from.” 

Lip’s the one who takes the phone out of Mandy’s hand, who actually does the work. 

He’s a genius, Mickey can’t help but remember. 

A genius who wants his brother back, almost as much as Mickey does. 

***

“New York.” Lip finally breathes, looking up from the cracked screen of Mandy’s hand-me-down cell phone. “He called from a payphone in New York.” 

Mickey doesn’t waste a single second. Doesn’t care that he’ll be breaking his parole by leaving the state. Doesn’t care that he’ll probably miss work doing this. They know where Ian is now. They have something to work with. 

“Then what the fuck are we waiting for, douchebags?” 

“Hey, it’s not gonna be that easy.” Lip protests, running a hand through his hair, glancing between the Milkovich siblings desperately. 

Mandy jumps right on board with Mickey, ready to follow him out the door at the drop of a hat – Mickey fucking loves her for it – but Ian’s brother hesitates. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” Mickey demands, so impatient that he feels like his skin is on fire. 

“I know where he called from.” Lip states plainly, not at all patient but a little condescending, just like always, and a lot desperate. “We don’t know if he lives in that area, if he was just passing through, nothing.”

Mickey’s shaking his head, though, and barely listening. “It’s _something_.” He snarls. “We can’t just let that go.” 

“Let’s just take a second, okay?” Lip insists. He doesn’t sound like he’s trying to start a fight – maybe a first – so Mickey takes a deep breath and actually listens. “Just give me a few hours, alright? I think I have an idea about how…I think I might be able to find out where he actually _is_ , if he’s living in New York.” 

“How?” Mandy demands. Mickey stands tall at her shoulder. 

Lip exhales a little shakily. “It’s probably better if I don’t answer that question.” He shrugs when they both glare at him. “Plausible deniability.” 

Mickey doesn’t trust a lot of people, and Lip Gallagher sure as fuck isn’t one of the few, but in this – their desperate quest to find Ian and bring him home – Mickey _does_ trust that the elder Gallagher is as devoted as Mickey himself. And for that reason, and that reason only, Mickey grants Lip his requested reprieve. 

“Twelve hours.” He hisses. “You have twelve hours to come up with something or I’m going to New York alone and you can goddamn well deal with it, you got me?” 

Lip, the fucking asshole, winds up only needing about half that time. 

He bangs on their front door that night at four minutes to midnight, loud and incessant, until Micky and Mandy let him inside. “I have an address.” He’s panting like he’d run here from somewhere far away. His face is flushed with exertion and _hope_. Mickey doesn’t think he’s ever seen that particular emotion on the guy before. “I know where Ian is. I have a fucking address.”

Mickey is the first one to react, and his words don’t surprise anyone. 

“Let’s fucking ride, bitches.”

___________________________________________________

**Next Time:**

 _“You’ll learn to tune it out.” She continues to beg. Ian’s hand is still wrapped around the pill bottle. “Those things…they’ll break you, baby. You won’t feel anything at all.”_

_Ian doesn’t flinch when she touches him. His eyes had been on her this whole time, but he hadn’t seen her come closer. Or maybe he had._

_“Please.” She whispers against his shoulder, pressing her face against the thin cotton of his faded t-shirt. “Please stay with me a little while longer.”_

_Ian puts the pills back on the shelf without taking any._

___________________________________________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: The person Mandy paid to come to the house and check for biodegradable shit in Mickey and Iggy’s rooms was Carl.


	10. It’s Not My Fault I’m a Maniac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will feature flashbacks and snippets of what’s been going on with Ian while Mickey was gone – all of it after he left with Monica. It’s not incredibly linear, though I do break it up a little into Before/Now’s that I hope help, and while this won’t be the only chapter that deals with Ian’s unmedicated state and the bad situations he got into, it’ll probably be the most potentially triggering. This chapter does feature Ian/OMC; but it’s nothing horribly graphic. Basically just…this dude is there, and things happen. See note at the end of the chapter for **trigger warnings** [spoilers].

**\--X--**

_It’s Not My Fault I’m a Maniac_

***  
***

Ian wakes up with his heart pounding in his chest. 

He has to hide. 

That’s his first thought, his only thought for a minute. 

He has to fucking _hide_ because they’re coming for him. The government. The army and the police. The others. They want him dead. They want him in a cage, locked up and drugged, until he can’t feel anything at all. 

His heart is pounding in his chest. 

He can’t breathe. 

“Settle down.” There’s a voice behind him, over him, all around him. Ian jerks away from it. “You’re not dying, jesus.” And something about the other man’s words, his utter lack of deep concern and obvious annoyance, settles Ian’s nerves somewhat. That voice is familiar. 

No, not the voice. The voice is nothing. 

But the tone, the inflection, the loud huffs and rolling eyes that are so loud Ian can see them without looking. 

“Mickey?” 

“Fuck, you do that a lot.” _Not_ -Mickey sighs, more annoyed than jealous. “I dunno who the fuck Mickey is, but I hope he knows what a goddamn torch you’re carrying for him.” 

“You sound like him sometimes.” Ian mumbles, dropping his head into his hands as his heartrate decreases. “I just forget.” 

“I don’t really give a shit, man.” Nathan laughs dully. “Take your fucking pills and give me a blowjob.” 

Ian lifts his head just enough to glare at his bedmate in the pseudo-dark of the room. It’s still night out, but the streetlights beaming in through the windows keep the room permanently encased in a soft glow. Nathan’s too cheap to spring for a set of those dark-out curtains.

Ian wakes up to that light sometimes and thinks there are helicopters outside, trying to get him. Once, he’d thought it was aliens. He’d hunkered down in the closet for three hours that time, panicking and crying. That had been weeks ago, though, and he hasn’t had an episode that intense in a while. 

Ian’s not entirely sure a pitch-black room would be better. 

“What?” Nathan snaps, clearly irked by his lack of movement. “Fucking do something, man. We got places to be in the morning. Either go back to sleep, help me go back to sleep, or fucking leave.” 

Ian decides to leave. Nathan’s still bitching when the door closes behind him, but Ian could use the fresh air – well, fresh is a relative term around here, but still. It’s better than the lingering stench of sex and smoke. 

He’d popped one of the anti-anxiety pills before he’d walked out on Nathan, and as he ambles down the street, he can feel it taking hold. 

He can usually convince himself that no one’s out to get him in the first few minutes after waking up like that, but he never really _believes_ it until he takes a pill, or gives himself enough time to focus fully on something else. Sometimes sex helps, but Nate had sounded so much like Mickey, back there, that Ian knows his brain would have just gotten all scrambled up with it, had he stayed. 

Fuck, sometimes he really doesn’t know if he should stay at all. 

His life could be a lot worse, all things considered, but with the way he’d been living before, that doesn’t actually amount to much. He feels calmer these days, now that Monica’s not in the picture anymore and he’s taking his pills pretty regularly, but some leftover fringe of his brain still craves what it had been like before, in those first few months where he and his mom had been out on the road alone together. 

Ian tries not to think about shit like this too much, because his brain isn’t really ready to handle it. He hides out behind his pills (the one’s he’s got prescribed to him and the ones Nathan brings him sometimes), the alcohol he’s not supposed to drink, the sex he doesn’t always like having, and the loud music in the clubs he still frequents. He encases himself into those little bubbles of euphoria and tainted perceptions because it’s easier than thinking about his family, Chicago, Mickey, or any of the other shit he’d left behind. 

His whole life is different now. Maybe not ruined, not the way he’d believed to be when he first got out of the army prison, but it’ll never be the same. And he knows he’s making it worse, every single day he stays away, he knows he’s digging himself a deeper hole. The longer he takes the meds the more his mind clears, and it’s becoming obvious, so fucking obvious when he finds a sober moment to think about it; all the things he’s pissing away by staying gone. 

But then the panic starts. Seeing Fiona and Lip again. Visiting Mickey in prison. Returning to his house on the Southside. Trying to pick up like everything is the same, when they all know it never will be again. He can’t breathe around thoughts like that, most of the time, and that’s why he stays. 

Nathan had asked him to come home with him after Monica had taken off, and Ian had been too manic to even think about saying no. He remembers laughing for a really long time when Nathan told him that _home_ was Hell’s Kitchen. 

He doesn’t even remember what had been so funny about it. That he already felt like he was in Hell, so how fitting was it, that he’d move somewhere with the actual name to match? Or maybe it’d been a superhero thing – how many fictional good guys have come out of this city? And now maybe Ian can be one of them. It had been hilarious, at the time. 

Now it’s just one of the things he’s gotten used to. New York is loud and bustling at all hours of the day and night. Ian likes it more than he thought he would, even when his brain is mostly stable. He likes that no one looks twice at him when he walks down the street – even now, at fuck o’clock in the morning while he’s still wearing sweatpants and a hoodie three sizes too big, – he likes that he can eat pizza for dinner every night for weeks on end and never have to go to the same place twice, he likes the familiar buzz of crime happening on every street corner, he likes the noise from the bars, and the sight of drunks stumbling in and out of alleyways all the time. 

Nathan would probably say he was crazy for finding comfort in those things, but Ian doesn’t share thoughts like that with guy he lives with, so he never says anything at all. 

**_Before_ **

“I’ll give you fifty bucks if you suck my dick in the bathroom.” The guy is older, greying, and has this _dignified_ air about him that’s wholly out of place in a bar like this. 

Ian barely spares him enough of a glance to notice that much before he’s downing the remainder of his whiskey and sliding off his barstool. “Sure.” 

**_Now_**

“You’re not going home tonight?” Cassie asks him with a quirked eyebrow, clearly already a little drunk. One of her kids screams something profane from the other room, and she doesn’t even flinch. 

“Nate’s high.” Is Ian’s response. “He usually doesn’t go for the harder stuff, but he’s an asshole when he does.” 

“Does he hit you?” Cassie asks bluntly, refilling her wine glass and then offering the bottle to Ian, who takes it gratefully. “’Cause Zane used to hit me and I stayed with him a damn long time before someone told me I deserved better and I actually fucking believed it.” 

“Zane sounds like a douche.” Ian comments. He’s never met Cassie’s ex, but he’s heard a lot of stories. 

“True fact, Red.” She laughs and takes another sip of her drink, missing it when Ian cringes a little at the nickname. 

“I had a guy once that I loved.” He finds himself saying, absently picking at the label on the wine bottle. “Like…head over heels, first crush, soul shattering love.” He laughs dryly. “He left me, but sometimes…sometimes Nate talks and I can hear him there, y’know?” He stops and takes a breath. “Shit. Does that make sense?” 

“Yeah.” Cassie nods. “It does.” 

“Anyway, if Nate was gonna smack me around for anything, it’d probably be for calling him the wrong name in bed. But he never gives a shit when I do that.” He huffs. “Besides, I could take him in a fight.” 

“Doesn’t mean you _would_.” Cassie counters, running a hand through her long blonde hair, and absently picking up her youngest son – a three-year-old named Jack – when he totters over to the couch and lifts his arms up demandingly. Like two out of Cassie’s four kids, Jack if half-black, and he reminds Ian so much of Liam that it hurts his heart to be around him sometimes. 

“You think I’d let myself get beat on?” Ian questions. 

“I think you have the most twisted sense of loyalty I’ve ever seen.” Cassie responds. “And a penchant for guilt trips, too. Especially when your brain gets all wonky.” She smiles a little, letting him know that she’s not judging. “And maybe you think you deserve it sometimes. Or that he can’t control it because of the drugs so it doesn’t count.”

Ian looks away. 

Jack’s tiny hands are grabbing at the hem of Cassie’s shirt, the same way Liam always used to do with whatever adult happened to be holding him. 

“It still counts.” She informs him, voice too serious for someone who’s downed half a bottle of wine in under thirty minutes. “It still counts, Red.”

It really says something, Ian thinks, that he’s starting to hear Mickey in her voice now, too.

**_Before_ **

“Don’t. Don’t take those.” Monica pleads with him, standing in the doorway of the trailer’s tiny bathroom. Her boyfriend is cooking meth out back. Some of his friends are here, shooting guns at rusted kitchen appliances and the occasional squirrel. 

_“And everyone_ hunts. _Like, why the fuck you gotta shoot and skin a goddamn deer just to make dinner, y’know? Go to fucking McDonalds.”_

“I can’t hear myself anymore.” He says into the mirror, watching his mother’s expression through the filter of its cracked and dirty reflection. “I can’t…I can’t…fuck. I can still hear everything. I can’t take hearing everything all the time.”

“You’ll learn to tune it out.” She continues to beg. Ian’s hand is still wrapped around the pill bottle. “Those things…they’ll break you, baby. You won’t feel anything at all.” 

Ian doesn’t flinch when she touches him. His eyes had been on her this whole time, but he hadn’t seen her come closer. Or maybe he had. 

“Please.” She whispers against his shoulder, pressing her face against the thin cotton of his faded t-shirt. “Please stay with me a little while longer.” 

Ian puts the pills back on the shelf without taking any. 

The next day, he, John, Nate, and Randy are all shooting guns in the backyard, free and high and so fucking gone on the nothingness surrounding him. 

Ian doesn’t even realize, when it first happens, that one of the stray bullets has hit him. 

He doesn’t look down until John starts screaming, and by then his head feels light, like there’s not much in it at all. 

There’s blood on his shirt.

“You shot me.” Ian says, blinking dazedly up at the people around him. 

He’d sat down on the ground at some point. He can’t remember when, but everyone is around his now, hovering. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Nate’s the one chanting. “I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t see. Fuck, I’m sorry.” 

Ian remembers watching Mickey get shot. Can recall with stark clarity the way the other boy had clutched at his leg in a panic. He’d just assumed, back then, that getting shot _hurt_. Hurt a lot. Because Mickey’s always been the toughest person he knows (besides Fiona) and still, that day at the Kash-N-Grab, he’d let Ian touch him, clung to his hand for a while, even, because bullets cause pain and that just makes sense. That’s what he’d thought. 

But when it happens to Ian, he doesn’t feel anything at all. 

***

“Come home with me.” Nathan says, and it’s not quite a question, but Ian knows he could say no if he were so inclined. 

Nathan’s face is etched with deep lines of worry and guilt. Ian doesn’t like it. He’s not sure why he doesn’t like it, but Lip and Fiona flit across his brain for a second while he tries to figure it out, and he thinks it maybe has something to do with them. 

“I was home with you.” He answers stupidly. The doctors had given him a lot of painkillers, and probably hadn’t known about the other pills he’s kind-of-but-not-really also taking. Definitely hadn’t been told about the other drugs. 

He feels so damn good he’s pretty sure he could touch the sky if he just reached his hand out. 

“Randy’s my cousin,” Nathan says this tiredly, like maybe Ian’s already supposed to know, “I was just crashing with him for a while. I live in New York.” 

“Like Broadway?” He asks, and doesn’t understand why Nathan shakes his head sadly. 

“Yeah. Like Broadway.” 

“Can Mickey come with us?” Ian wants to know, because the other boy had said something about hunting the other day, how much he hates it, and will probably be thrilled to get out of the country for a while. 

“Yeah.” Nathan says easily, sweeping a hand through Ian’s hair. “Of course he can.”

The redhead considers his options for a moment. “Won’t you miss Kentucky?” 

Nathan’s face falls. “Ian…man, we’re in Tennessee. You know that, right?” 

Ian hadn’t, but he also doesn’t understand why it’s making Nathan so sad, all of a sudden, when he tells him. 

“Sure.” He says easily. “I’ll come to New York with you.” 

**_Before_ **

“Hey!” Ian tries to make a grab for it, but Monica’s already succeeded in throwing his phone out the window of the moving car. They’re doing ninety in a seventy-mile-an-hour zone. He sees the phone shatter on the pavement in the side-view mirror. He’s pretty sure it’s a holiday weekend. 

“You won’t need it anymore, baby.” She assures him, laughing loudly at nothing and then whooping a few more times out the still-open window. “No one gets it, Ian. They mean well, but they’ll just drag you down. You need to be around people who _understand_.” 

A state trooper pulls them over ten minutes later. Monica doesn’t nod and smile and take the ticket graciously. She screams and rants and actually tries to hit the guy. Ian defends her because he has to. Because she’s family, and he’d been trying to hurt her. 

They spend two nights in a county jail before Monica finds someone willing to bail them out. 

She has sex with a stranger for the money to pay her friend back. Ian gets fucked for the first time in two years because what she’d gotten hadn’t been enough, and this guy will kill them, Monica says, if she doesn’t pay him back right away. 

Maybe he’s not her friend, after all. 

Maybe there’s no such thing as friends. 

Maybe there’s no such thing as anything. 

**_Now_**

“And how are you feeling today, Mr. Gallagher?” The doctor asks him with a tired, but genuine, smile. “The pills working the way they’re supposed to, still?”

Ian scratches at the back of his neck. “Can’t sleep.” He mutters. He’d used his own last name on the fake ID, because it’ll be harder later to transfer his medical files back to Chicago if he’d used a different one. He doesn’t think too hard about the fact that he’s planning for that “Wake up jumpy sometimes. Tried to kill my boyfriend the other night with a busted beer bottle.” 

The doctor’s eyes narrow. “Well, let’s see if we can’t sort that out.” 

*** 

“Am I just here because you feel guilty about shooting me?” Ian asks one night, staring at the ceiling as Nathan pants heavily beside him. 

“Do you really want me to answer that?” 

Ian figures that’s probably answer enough. 

***

“I think I’m just waiting for him to come back.” Ian decides to tell Cassie this because the meds are making his brain feel normal again, at least almost, and also because the two of them are drunk and more than a little high – her new boyfriend gets the best weed Ian’s ever smoked in his life. 

“Nate?” She asks. Her eyes are focused on her hand, which she’s flexing over and over again in front of her face, like she finds the sight of it there wholly surreal. 

“Mickey.” Ian says. “Always Mickey.” 

“Mouse?” She asks, and Ian’s drawn out of the somber moment by the sheer unexpectedness of her words. 

He laughs loudly, from deep in his gut. Then she does, too. Then he keeps going because she’s funny as fuck, laughing like that, and soon the both of them are panting and gasping, out of breath and in pain for the best possible reason. 

“Fuck.” She mutters a while later, once they’ve calmed down and have more alcohol, though Ian can’t remember at all how the fresh beer bottle had wound up in his grip. “What were you saying about Mickey Mouse?” 

He laughs again. Not as hard, but still a deep chuckle the twinges his ribs. “Not Mickey Mouse.” He informs her seriously, leaning forward a little. “ _Mickey_. My Mickey.” 

“You have a Mickey?” She asks, eyes wide and deeply curious. 

Ian grins. “Yeah.” He breathes. “Yeah, I’ve got a Mickey.” 

**_Before_ **

“Do you want a tour of the city?” Nathan asks as soon as they pull up in front of his apartment building. The other man’s eyes are tired, probably too heavy for anything. 

“Nah.” Ian says. He hasn’t slept in two days and feels no immediate desire to do so, but he can see the fatigue in Nate, and doesn’t want to push. “Get some rest. I’ll just wander around for a while.” 

Ian wanders around. It’s for more than a while. 

He doesn’t make his way back to Nathan’s place for nine days. The other man doesn’t ask him where he’d been or what he’d done. 

Ian never tells him. 

**_Now_ **

“Hello?” Mandy answers on the fourth ring. 

Ian had expected her phone to be disconnected, by now. He’d expected her to not answer the unknown number. He’d expected to stand here at a payphone on a New York City street and have a recorded operator voice tell him that he’s shit out of luck, because this connection to his past has long since gone dead. 

But Mandy’s voice greets him after four rings, and Ian’s breath stutters in his chest. 

“Hello?” She asks again, annoyed this time. Impatient. “Look, Andy, if this is you, I really meant it about not fucking you anymore, okay?” 

He can’t help it when he chuckles a little at that. 

Mandy actually gasps. A breath caught in the back of her throat. “Ian?” 

He sucks in a deep breath of his own. 

He’d only called her because he’d been sure, so sure, that he wouldn’t get an answer. 

He could still call it progress, so long as he’d tried. 

He forgets why that had been so important. 

“Hey.” His voice comes out rough. So much wearier than he’d been shooting for. He hadn’t been prepared for anything beyond mechanical, pre-recorded apologies. 

“Where the fuck are you?” She asks, voice reaching that higher pitch she gets sometimes, when she’s truly panicked. “Fuck, Ian, where the fuck have you been?” 

He doesn’t know how to answer that. He sniffs, and eyes a drunk man across the street trying to steal vegetables from one of those stands outside a store. The owner sees him, of course he does, and Ian thinks he’s going to get to watch the drunk man get taken down by the buff black dude in a bright green apron. But the owner, or the employee, or whoever the fuck he is, surprises Ian. He hands an apple to the drunk and gently shoos him away, like it doesn’t even matter that he’d just lost something and gained nothing. 

“Ian!” Mandy’s voice is loud in his ear, and he knows he’d forgotten to pay attention again. 

“Sorry.” He says, glad that his words come out steady. “I didn’t think you’d pick up.” 

“Then why did you call?” She sounds on the verge of tears, and maybe there are other voices in the background, too; ones Ian knows all too well. 

“You tried to get me to come home.” He says, closing his eyes and remembering the bits of it that his muddled brain has held onto – Mandy and Lip visiting him at the army holding cells, Fiona’s words at his pre-sentencing interview, how they’d all wanted, so badly, for him to be something he wasn’t. “I just wanted to let you know I appreciate it.” 

“Your brother’s here.” Mandy tells him with a desperate edge, maybe sensing that Ian won’t be able to hold on to this for much longer. “Mickey is, too. He got out of prison. I tried to tell you. I wanted to. Your phone doesn’t work anymore.” 

Ian’s heart clenches hard and tight at the mention of Mickey. “Monica threw it out a window.” 

“Please come home.” She says, tears in her eyes that Ian can hear. “Please just tell us where you are.” 

“Tell Lip I’m sorry.” He swallows thickly. “And tell Mickey…” he searches his brain, as fast as he can, for something, anything, to pass on. “Tell Mickey he was right about hunting.” 

Then he hangs up the phone, and tries not to let the tears fall as he walks home. 

**_Before_ **

The bullet had only grazed his side. 

Gone right through, entrance and exit, with no fragments or torn organs left in its wake. 

“You’re very lucky.” The doctor tells him, feeding him antibiotics and painkillers and god knows what else. “Gun safety isn’t something to be taken lightly.” 

Ian stares at the space around the older man’s head, watching with fascination as bright dots of color explode all around them. 

**_Now_**

“I had a girlfriend in high school.” Ian tells Nathan. He doesn’t know why it matters, why Nate would even care. 

The older man just huffs. “Who didn’t?”

It had been different, he wants to say. Mandy had always known the truth. She’s the only person, besides Fiona and Carl, to whom Ian had ever _told_ the truth. She matters more than Nathan thinks she does. 

“I miss her.” 

Nate glances over sharply. “You miss pussy?” 

Ian quirks a smile, nothing like humor in its depths at all. “I miss _her_.” 

“Then what the fuck are you still doing here?” He demands, angry because he’s drunk and a little high – but it’s okay. It’s only the pills. Pills aren’t the heavy shit. Ian can deal with the pills. 

“I don’t miss…I never fucked her.” He tries to explain. The doctor at the clinic had changed his prescription last week. He thinks he’s finally beginning to feel it. “She was my best friend.” 

Nathan’s eyes soften. “I know what it’s like to lose one of those.” 

His words are laced with a truly deep-rooted kind of pain that Ian finds himself cringing at, when he hears it. Nathan’s never said anything like that to him before. He glances away. “Sorry.” 

Nate doesn’t say anything else the rest of the night. They fuck twice, and Ian’s glad, almost, for the distraction of their bodies moving together. But he doesn’t _say_ anything. 

It’s one of the worst nights of Ian’s life. 

***

When they were younger, Lip had taught Ian how to count cards. You don’t have to have a photographic memory to do it, his brother had insisted; there are tricks you can teach yourself. Ian had listened and learned and while he’ll never be as good at it as Lip, he’d always been able to manage a pretty decent hustle. 

That had been the year Liam was born. Fiona had been strapped for money with a new baby in the house, Carl had been sick with the flu for the better part of a month, Monica had crashed in their living room for weeks with postpartum depression, Debbie had been trying too hard to help Fiona by playing mom, and Lip and Ian had been mostly alone, wanting to help but not knowing how. Then one of Lip’s friends had told him about a poker game his dad always went to with a bunch of high rollers from the Northside, and it had spiraled from there. Different games, different guys, different places – same risks. Every single time; they’d been gambling a lot more than money. 

Eventually shit had hit the fan and they’d been forced to cut and run, but it was with enough cash to keep Liam and the other kids alive through the winter, even after Monica had split again (for good, though none of them had known that right away). 

Ian hasn’t thought about any of that in years, but when Cassie’s new boyfriend asks him if he knows how to play poker, Ian’s immediate and instinctive reaction is to shrug casually and say, “Yeah, I’ve played before. Not in a while.” 

Mason’s grin is wide and damn near predatory. “You got much of a disposable income?” He questions, trying for casual and pulling it off horribly. “I got a couple buddies meetin’ up in a little bit, and our sixth just dropped out.” 

Ian knows they’re going to try to hustle him. He also knows that no matter how good they are, they’re not going to get away with it – because Ian has a brother with an off-the-charts IQ who had spent their whole childhood teaching him how to think in a way that other people can’t; and while Ian’s brain will never work the same way Lip’s does, he’s well-armed with an arsenal of hand-me-down genius. 

“Sounds like fun.” Ian keeps his expression innocent. “What time?”

___________________________________________________

**Next Time:**

_His eyes zero in on Ian so fast it’s like he’s a beacon. And Ian knows he kind of is – he’s taller than most people, and his hair is bright, he’s always easy to spot in a crowd – but it’s also more than that. It’s Mickey and Ian. It’s Mickey finding Ian. It’s Ian finding Mickey. It wouldn’t matter if he shrunk half a foot and shaved his head, Mickey would still always be able to find him. That must be it, some kind of magic between them, because Mickey is here._

___________________________________________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so trigger warnings in this chapter for references to Ian having sex while manic and/or very, very high, probably stuff that could be considered dub!con. There is a brief mention of Ian bottoming once (and giving a blowjob in another situation), specifically for money, so also prostitution. Various accounts of Ian not remembering everything about certain sexual encounters and feeling apathetic towards them (not worse than anything we saw in the show, I don’t think). Illegal drug use. Also, implied domestic violence.


	11. Finding You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving (to those who celebrate it)!!

**\--XI--**

_Finding You_

***  
***

“So, this is it?” 

Mickey, Mandy, and Lip eye the crumbling apartment building in front of them. It’s not much worse, objectively, than something you’d see on the Southside, but Mickey still hates the thought of Ian living here because it’s _not_ the Southside. It’s not where he belongs. 

“This is it.” Lip nods decisively. 

They don’t say anything as they enter the building. They ride the elevator in silence, three sets of eyes determinedly staring at different corners. 

Lip guides them to the right unit. Mickey and Mandy still don’t know how he’d gotten this address and Mickey, at least, doesn’t feel inclined to find out. If Ian’s here, it doesn’t really matter. 

He knocks on the door when Ian’s brother and his own sister hesitate. He can’t help but roll his eyes at them. This is why they’re _here_. 

No one comments on how much his own hands are shaking. 

The man who answers the door definitely isn’t Ian. 

He’s tall, is Mickey’s first thought. Taller than Ian. He’s tall and _built_. Like a fighter. Or a bodybuilder. 

Mickey squares his shoulders. “Hey.” 

The tall, built motherfucker stares at the three of them for a few seconds, blinking dumbly. He’s got blonde hair that’s shaggy and unkempt down to his ears. He’s wearing faded sweatpants and a black t-shirt. Mickey hears Lip swallow thickly somewhere over his left shoulder. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Blonde dude asks. He sounds annoyed, a little, but mostly just tired. Maybe he’d been asleep before he’d answered the door. Maybe he wants to be. 

Mickey doesn’t care. 

“We’re lookin’ for someone.” Mickey says, with more confidence than he feels. As much as he needs, to do what needs done. “Ian Gallagher. He live here?”

The guy’s eyes narrow. “What the fuck is it to you?”

Blonde dude has a slight Southern accent, underneath all that New York bravado. Mickey thinks that might be important to remember at some point, might be a card he can play later. 

“We’re lookin’ for him.” Mickey repeats, squaring his shoulders. 

“Fuck off.” 

“Wait, wait,” Lip interrupts, right before the Southern prick closes the door or Mickey throws a punch. “I’m his brother, alright? We came here from Chicago. We just need to know where…if he’s here, we really wanna talk to him.”

Mickey hates that Lip’s method seems to produce better results, but he can’t deny the shift in the other guy, at Ian’s brother’s heartfelt plea. He stops trying to close the door and takes a deep breath instead. “Brother, huh?” 

Lip nods, not too eager, not getting his hopes up, but firmly. 

“And you two?” He glances at either Milkovich. 

Mandy bristles a little, but juts her chin out proudly. “I’m his best friend.” 

Blonde dude’s eyes soften at that, considerably so. He stares at Mandy for a long time. Too long, in Mickey’s opinion. 

“Yo, Southern Comfort, you gonna make us stand out here all fucking day or what?” 

The guy looks at him then, eyes widening as something seems to click into place for him. “Are you Mickey?” 

Mickey glances at Mandy, Mandy’s eyes dart between him and Lip, and Ian’s brother just shrugs at both of them dumbly. 

Blonde guy sees their wordless interaction, and has the nerve to actually chuckle. “Ian talks about you sometimes.” He says, like that explains it. “He’s not here right now, but y’all can come in and wait if you want. He always comes back, eventually.” 

Mickey feels something cold and heavy settle in the pit of his stomach at what that implies, but he follows the others into the tiny loft apartment anyway. 

***

There must still be some Southern hospitality left in the guy, Mickey figures. Nothing else explains the way he ushers them into his miniscule living quarters, encourages them to take whatever various seats they can find, and starts brewing a fresh pot of coffee. 

“My name’s Nathan.” He says once the ancient looking pot is percolating. He looks over the three of them again, and must get the sense that none of them are interested much in pleasantries. Instead of forcing it, he gets right to the point. “Ian’s been living here for a few months.” 

Mickey looks around the place and tries to imagine Ian here. The bulk of the apartment is the living room – which also appears to be the bedroom. There’s a mattress on the floor by a large window, and a couch separating that space from the kitchen nook – which has a tiny, two-person table where Lip and Mandy are sitting now. Mickey’s leaning against the back of the couch, facing them. He hadn’t wanted to sit. Still doesn’t. 

“How is he?” Lip asks, and even though Mickey can tell he’s trying to temper it, the desperation in his tone is obvious. “I mean…shit. I don’t know how well you know…what you guys are… _shit_.” His words fizzle out with a frustrated sigh, and Mickey snorts. 

“Ian’s sick.” Mandy takes over, getting right to the point in her comfortingly familiar blunt kind of way. “We came here to bring him home because he’s sick.”

Nathan leans back against the counter, hands planted on either side of it behind him – Mickey’s struck by how much space this guy takes up, how intimidating he seems without even trying. Mickey’s not scared of the dude, he’s not scared of anything, but it makes him nervous, picturing Ian with someone like this. 

Nathan could be everything Ian’s been looking for, what he probably needs now that his brain’s working against him – someone steady, strong, and inherently unafraid. He could also be the exact opposite of that – quick to anger and capable of overpowering Ian. The guy – _Nathan_ – has at least a couple inches on the redhead, in height and in bulk. Mickey’s stomach twists at the thought of Ian and this guy fighting, of Nathan hurting Ian during one of his episodes. 

He hates both possible scenarios, but knows which one he’d prefer to be true, even if the truth of it might break him. 

Mickey’s so caught up in his thoughts that he almost misses it when Nathan says, “Yeah, I know,” in a quiet voice. 

“You _know_?” Lip repeats, and his anger, at least, is comforting. 

“About the bipolar thing?” Nathan confirms. It’s Mandy who nods, face slack with the same shock that Mickey’s pretty sure they’re all feeling. “Yeah, of course I fucking know. I live with the guy. Shit, I knew his…well, I guess she was yours, too…” he trails off for a moment, vaguely nodding towards Lip. Then he shakes his head, disregarding the logistics. “I knew Monica.” 

“You…whaddya mean you _knew_ her?” Lip asks, sounding scared all of a sudden, and Mickey doesn’t really get why until Lip blurts, “She’s not dead, is she?” 

Nathan’s face actually softens a little at that. His eyes are brown, Mickey notes. “No.” He says quickly. “Or, well, not as far as I know. She’s…well, y’know.” Lip nods dully. Mickey’s never met the Gallagher’s mother, but from what he’s heard these past few weeks about her, Lip’s reaction seems perfectly on point. “She split when we were still in Tennessee. Then Ian came back here with me.” 

It’s beyond obvious that there’s a lot more to the story than that, but Mickey doesn’t even know where to start asking, about something as complicated as all of this. 

“I thought you were a figment of his imagination, for a while.” Nathan’s words catch them all off guard, and Mickey has to blink a few times, really force himself to focus, before he’s sure that the other guy is actually looking at him. “He asked if you could come here with us. Something about you don’t like hunting?” He snorts a little and shakes his head, not waiting for Mickey to confirm or deny that. “Takes a while to figure out sometimes, what’s real and what’s not with him.” 

“Yeah, yeah that’s the disease.” Lip latches onto that the way he does to anything that he can explain or define. Mickey figures it’s his whole genius thing – the only weapon he has that helps him feel in control of a situation. “Paranoia, hallucinations. He got diagnosed, right before he took off.” 

“He’s taking pills.” Nathan says. 

Mickey stands up straighter and squares his shoulders. “He’s on meds?” 

He’s not entirely sure why that information fucking _hurts_ so much, but it really goddamn does. Maybe he’d been thinking…shit, he _knows_ he’d been thinking that all of this – Ian staying gone, not contacting them, all of it – had been a symptom of his whacked-out brain. But if he’s _better_ , if he’s thinking clearly…

“Sometimes.” Nathan sighs, closing his eyes briefly and breathing deeply. “He takes them and then he doesn’t. He’s normal for a while and then he’s not. I can’t fucking…I’m not his fucking keeper, y’know?” A silent beat passes. “He disappears sometimes.”

Mickey glances at Lip and Mandy. His sister looks like she’s about ready to cry, but Lip’s face has settled into something fierce and damn near murderous. “You _can’t_ let him fucking do that shit.” He snarls, anger boiling and so genuine – nothing like the controlled mockery he usually dishes out. “Fuck, you…you don’t fucking _get_ it, man. It’s better…fuck, it’s almost better for him to not take the pills at all, then go back and forth like that.” Lip stands up then, gets out of his chair and starts shifting his weight back and forth, like he’s waiting for a cue. 

“Hey, at least he’s trying.” Mandy jumps in. “Ian, not him.” She clarifies, when they both glare at her, gesturing at Nathan like he’s not the point at all. Because, really, he’s not. “If he’s making an effort he probably at least _wants_ to get better.” 

“No, fucking _no_.” Lip spits at her, and Mickey takes a step closer, instinctively wanting to protect her from a man who’s rapidly losing control of his emotions. It’s a scene he recognizes far too well. “You’ve never seen it. The pills, they don’t _work_ like that. Shit, Monica used to do that, too. She’d take them and then stop, take other shit. Ian’s taking other drugs, too, isn’t he?” 

Nathan doesn’t confirm it verbally, but his expression – part guilt, a little fear – says more than enough. 

“And it’s worse, it can be worse than the manic or the depression, can _make_ it worse.” Lip continues. He focuses on Mandy again. “You think he was crazy when he was shaking his ass at that club? When he kidnapped Liam? When we found him passed out in the snow that one time? Shit, that’s…that’s _nothing_ compared to what those fucking pills will do to him if he doesn’t take them consistently, if he mixes them with shit. He’ll…he’ll get lost in his own head. He’ll fucking _die_ , okay? He’ll slit his wrists, or jump off a building because he thinks he can fly, or –” 

“Fucking _stop_.” Mickey snaps. He’s having a hard time focusing, or breathing; Lip’s words are strangling him. 

Lip and Mandy have been pretty evasive about the specifics of what Ian’s “downward spiral” had entailed. He’d known about the club and the drugs, and they’ve told him bits and pieces here and there, but neither of them had elaborated much and Mickey, honestly, hadn’t pushed them to. 

He’s not sure if he regrets that now, or if he wishes Lip had just kept his fucking mouth shut. 

“And you,” Lip turns towards Nathan again when Mickey doesn’t say anything else. “You can’t care about him and let him _do_ shit like that. What the fuck’s wrong with you?” He stalks towards the guy, gets right up in his face as best as he can, given the height difference. 

Nathan takes his hands off the counter and squares his shoulders. “I can’t fucking control the guy.” 

Lip pushes him. Hard enough that Nathan’s head hits the cabinet directly behind him. Mandy jumps out of her chair, and Mickey’s moving before he can even think about it. 

Nathan swings at Lip faster than Mickey would have expected, and Ian’s brother staggers with the force of it, blood spewing from his nose. The shock of it doesn’t keep him grounded for long; within a second, maybe two, Lip is right back up in Nathan’s space again, clearly angling to get a beat down from the guy. 

It doesn’t take a fucking _genius_ to get what this is about; even Mickey’s smart enough to piece together the logic (or lack of logic) behind Lip’s sudden fury. He wants to get beat on by Nathan because _he_ feels guilty. He feels responsible for Ian’s actions, for not being able to protect his little brother from all of this – from himself – and sees the reflection of his own helplessness in Nathan’s description of Ian’s life now. 

Mickey feels a pang of guilt himself – not about Ian (well, yes about Ian, but he figures he’ll have plenty of time to dwell on _that_ later) – but because he’d accused Lip of the exact same thing; blamed him, loudly, for not protecting Ian. And, yeah, he’d been genuinely pissed about what had gone down while he’d been in prison, and maybe he does still blame Lip (and Fiona, and even Mandy a little), for not doing more to help him, but he also realizes it hadn’t _truly_ been their fault. He knows more now, about what being bipolar actually means, what the Gallaghers have been dealing with their whole lives with Monica, and what they’d been going through at the time Ian had needed their help the most. 

But Lip’s guilt is raw and kind of staggering, and Mickey can clearly see how much the guy blames himself – and it’s more than Mickey or anyone else ever could. He knows Ian and Lip have always been close, maybe more so than any of the other Gallagher siblings, and it’s obviously wrecking him, hearing about all the things he hadn’t been able to stop. 

So, because he’s a fucking nice guy or some shit – or maybe just because he knows how much it would fuck Ian up, if his boyfriend killed his brother – Mickey steps between the two of them before any more bloodshed happens. He gets Lip by the shoulders and forces him back, none too gently, until Mandy’s close enough to wrap an arm around his waist, and that seems to calm him down a little. Enough. 

Mickey turns back to Nathan, planting himself firmly between him and the other two, with his eyebrows raised challengingly. “We gonna have a fucking problem here, blondie?” 

Nathan scowls, but visibly relaxes enough that Mickey knows this fight, at least for now, is over. 

***  
***

Ian goes back to Cassie’s apartment, once the poker game ends in the almost-expected and only slightly-encouraged bloodshed. 

“Did Mason do that?” She asks, holding Jack on her hip and eyeing Ian’s bruised and bloody face wearily. 

“Some of his friends.” Ian admits. He pulls an impressively large wad of cash out of his pocket a moment later, cringing slightly when his fingers brush against a few of the bruises he’s got forming under his clothes, and separates out half of the bills, dropping them on the kitchen counter. 

“I don’t want that.” Cassie tells him firmly. 

“Good.” Ian nods. “It’s not for you.” 

“Then why’s it on my table?” She challenges, clearly having caught onto the fact that this is a game; she just doesn’t know what roll she’s playing yet, or if she’s willing to play at all. 

“Consider it an investment for Jack’s college fund.” Ian stands at full height and stares unblinkingly at her, when it looks like she might protest. 

Eventually, she just sighs tiredly, places Jack in a booster-seat chair, and waves Ian closer to her. “Lemme look at that eye, Red.” She commands. 

Ian complies, sitting down and allowing her to prod, poke, dap at, and bandage the superficial bruises and cuts on his face. Little does he know; his brother is less than fifteen blocks away, in Ian’s own apartment, receiving similar medical care from an equally no-nonsense female. 

“You need to go to the clinic for anything?” Cassie asks, once she’s tended to everything she can get her hands on. She’s always very efficient in matters like this, and Ian appreciates her lack of pity more than he knows how to articulate. 

“Nah.” he shrugs. Then, a few minutes later, “Mason wasn’t looking to start a fight.”

Cassie quirks an eyebrow. 

Ian waves his hand vaguely. “Just thought you should know that.” He adds, explaining his random proclamation. “He wanted to hustle me, make some cash, but he wasn’t looking to beat it outta me. Couple of his buddies were drunk as fuck, though, and shit got outta hand. Mason tried his best to shut it down.” 

“You tellin’ me that so I know he’s still a decent guy?” Cassie guesses.

Ian snorts. “I have no idea if he’s a decent guy.” He admits. “Just telling you what happened.” 

“You’re a sweet kid, you know that?” The way her eyes crinkle fondly reminds him sharply of Fiona. 

“Been thinking about going home.” He blurts. 

He expects her to not understand, to say something like _why wouldn’t you go home, did Nate do something?_ but she doesn’t. She hones in on him without missing a beat. “You mean Chicago.” 

It’s not a question. Ian nods anyway. 

“You missin’ that guy of yours?” She ponders, absently fixing Jack a snack now that she doesn’t have Ian’s injuries to take care of. “Or do you want to try to make things right with your family?” 

Ian takes a deep breath, hears Mandy’s words in his head again; _Mickey is, too. He got out of prison. I tried to tell you. I wanted to._ , but also he can’t help but remember that Liam’s birthday is next month. 

He hasn’t seen Liam since the brief, impromptu, and mildly illegal road trip he’d taken his brother on right before he’d been formally diagnosed. He thinks about that, his baby brother, and also about how much Debbie and Carl have inevitably grown up since he’s been gone, and how Fiona’s probably struggling with the three of them, now that Lip’s away at college more often than not. He thinks about Frank, and how he might feel more inclined to barge into the house whenever he pleases, since Ian and Lip aren’t there to forcibly remove him from it anymore. 

“I just…” Ian trails off for a second, glancing everywhere but at her, trying to find the right words, “I just feel like it’s time to stop hiding from everything, y’know?” 

“Yeah, Ian.” Cassie sighs, and the redhead meets her gaze then, sees the deep depths of exhaustion and understanding buried there. “That one I get.”

***  
***

It ends up being one of the most surreal afternoons of Mickey’s life. 

Here he is, in New York fucking City, hanging around the apartment Ian’s been living in, with the guy he’s been _fucking_ , talking back and forth about what’s best for the wayward redhead, what their next move should be, and how they’re going to deal with it if everything goes to shit. 

“What if Ian doesn’t want to come home?” Mandy asks at some point, wiping the blood off of Lip’s face with a damp washcloth that the guy who had _caused_ the blood had so helpfully provided. Fucking surreal. 

“Then we fucking make him.” Mickey responds, more confident than he feels. 

Lip snorts, then immediately cringes at the pain that causes his busted nose. “What are we gonna do?” He asks, patiently tilting his head this way and that whenever Mandy nudges at him. “Drug him? Knock him out? Tie him up, throw him in the car, force him to come back to Chicago?” 

“If we have to.” Mickey nods. He doesn’t mean it. He’d never _force_ Ian to do anything, not to save his own life, but his emotions are fraying around the edges, and these words are easier than the ones he really wants to say. 

“Even if we do that,” Mandy interjects, “what’s to stop him from just coming back eventually? I mean, he’s taken off twice now.” 

“You could have him committed.” Nathan suggests, very unhelpfully, from where he’s standing a few feet away from them at the two-burner stove, scrambling half a carton of eggs. Punch a guy in the face and then feed him and his friends, who are literally here to steal your boyfriend away from you, lunch; it’s gotta be a Southern thing. 

“The fuck we could.” Mickey snaps angrily, and in this, at least, Lip seems to be on his side. 

“Yeah, man, that doesn’t work.” Ian’s brother says tiredly. “Plus, he hasn’t done anything to warrant being forcibly hospitalized. And I doubt he’d sign himself in voluntarily.” 

Nathan just hums, not overly concerned with Ian’s fate, as far as Mickey can tell. He wonders how serious this thing is, between the two of them. They live together, but is it out of more than convenience?

“How fucked up was he when he agreed to live here?” He hears himself asking. 

Nathan and the others look at him. 

Mickey just shrugs, not put off by their reactions, refusing to hide the fact that he gives a shit about Ian fucking Gallagher anymore. 

When his steely expression doesn’t waver, Nathan eventually sighs. “We were in Tennessee.” He glances back at the frying pan on the stove, fiddles with one of the burners. “Ian, he…he got hurt. We had to take him to the hospital. Monica said she was going to follow us, but she never showed up. Took off then and there, I guess. Ian wasn’t surprised. He might’ve been a little out of it, when he said yes, but it’s not like I forced him. Not like y’all are talking about doing.” 

“If he was manic, then it’s pretty much the same thing.” Lip says tightly. 

“Well he hasn’t left yet, has he?” Nathan bites back. 

Mickey’s palms are sweating. “Got hurt how?” 

Mandy’s eyes narrow at Nathan, when he turns back again, and he seems more afraid of that, of her, than of Mickey or Lip. They all notice the wave of guilt that crashes over his features, and it makes Mickey’s blood burn. 

“Did you hurt him?” His voice is lethal. 

“No.” Nathan’s shaking his head, and Mickey can tell he’s lying. “Fuck. It’s none of your fucking business, alright? You weren’t there.” 

He wasn’t, Mickey concedes. He’d still been in prison, when all of this had gone down, and his own guilt over that is probably the only thing that keeps Nathan alive. 

***

“Shit, man, I can’t just fucking stand around here all damn day.” Mickey finally snaps, once they’ve been in Nathan’s – not Ian’s, he refuses to think of it as Ian’s – tiny apartment for just under three hours. 

“You got something better to do?” Lip snaps. 

“Yeah.” Mickey fires back. “Find your fucking brother, for one.” 

“And how are you going to do that, Mick?” Mandy asks tiredly. “We don’t know where he is, Nathan doesn’t know where he is, our best bet is to just stay –”

“You guys fucking stay.” Mickey cuts her off. “Stay here and fucking call me if he shows up, but I can’t just fucking sit around here waiting…” he huffs his aggravation, and while Mandy’s rolling her eyes at him, like she doesn’t understand why he can’t be patient just this once, Lip’s expression has softened somewhat, and he nods his understanding. 

“We’ll let you know.” He agrees, huffing when Mandy glares at him. “Hey, it’s not like he’s gonna make anything worse, wandering around Hell’s Kitchen by himself; he might even get lucky.”

“Or he might get himself killed.” Mandy counters. 

Mickey cuts off the rest of their bickering when he shuts the door behind him. 

New York City, he thinks absently, as soon as he’s back on the street outside of Nathan’s apartment. He glances up and down the block, trying to decide which direction to start walking. He picks left at random and doesn’t look back. 

It’s not San Francisco, but Mickey supposes it’ll do for now. 

***  
***

Ian figures he’s hallucinating, at first. 

His heart catches in his throat when he sees him, but he _can’t_ be seeing him, it doesn’t make sense, so obviously his brain is making it up, trying to fuck with him – like it does sometimes when he wakes up thinking government spies or aliens are out to get him. 

But…but he’s been more stable, in the past two weeks, than he has in over a year, and even when his mind does play those tricks, it’s only in the haze that settles between sleep and reality, when he doesn’t have full control.

His hallucination is on the other side of the street. Ian had only seen him because he’d been rotating his head around, trying to alleviate some of the ache in his neck. When he had, he’d frozen; stopped moving entirely, one foot still slightly elevated in the step he’d been about to take. His hallucination keeps walking, in the opposite direction Ian had been going. 

He thinks about calling out, but New York is loud, so loud, and even if he’d tried, Mickey – _is it Mickey? Could it be?_ – probably wouldn’t hear him. 

So, he runs instead. Reanimates all at once like a broken clock had suddenly started ticking again, bringing his whole world back to life

He has to go the same way he’d been going, at first. Has to get to a crosswalk because that whole running blindly across the street expecting traffic to stop for you thing only works in the movies, and Ian figures getting splattered across the pavement would be a pretty anticlimactic end to whatever it is that’s happening right now. 

His body remembers how to sprint. He hasn’t worked out like this in over a year, since he left the army, but his limbs, his lungs, and his heart all remember how to do it. Years of excelling at ROTC, months of basic training, a whole lifetime of fleeing from cops and people wanting to hurt him – usually with Lip (and then, later, Mickey) at his side – are engrained into him.

Yeah, his body remembers everything. 

Remembering doesn’t make it easy, though. Doesn’t cancel out the months of apathy, the weeks he’d spent in bed, the cigarettes he’s taken to smoking more often than he ever had in his childhood, or the bruises littering his body. He’s out of shape and he’s _hurt_. He’s slower than he wants to be and even though his legs are still long, the streets of Hell’s Kitchen are crowded, and Ian feels like he’s moving through quicksand. 

It’s like one of those dreams he used to have when he was younger. The ones that had come back with a vengeance during his first manic episode. Trying to run, knowing he has to, that he won’t survive if he doesn’t, but not being able to no matter how hard he tries. Too slow. Too late. Everything’s gone now and he’s alone. 

Only this isn’t a dream. Or a nightmare. 

This is reality, and that’s Mickey, right there, on the street in front of him. Only a few dozen feet ahead of him now. 

Ian would recognize him anywhere. His hair is longer, his arms are rippling with muscles he hadn’t had before – _“Not much to do in the joint but work out”_ – but the set of his shoulders, the gait of his walk, the determination he exudes, it’s all Mickey. 

Mickey. His Mickey. Mickey fucking Milkovich, in the flesh.

Fuck. 

“ _Mickey_!” 

The man in front of him stops, freezes just like Ian had when he’d first seen him. But he doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t move, only he’s not used to New York like Ian is by now, doesn’t know how to position his body to go with the flow, and it’s not a second before someone is bumping into him, jostling him out of whatever stasis he’d fallen into at hearing Ian’s voice. Thinking he heard. Maybe wishing. 

Fuck, maybe Mickey is as dumbstruck as Ian feels. 

But Mickey hasn’t seen yet. Doesn’t have the proof that Ian had just gotten. 

The redhead quickens his pace. 

“Mickey!” He calls out again, just as loud even though he’s closer now. His breath is coming out in heavy pants, too much excretion that he’s not used to anymore. He doesn’t feel it, though; doesn’t give a single shit, because Mickey, that’s Mickey, Mickey’s here. 

The second shout seems to pull the older boy out of his trance, and he whips around so fast Ian wouldn’t be surprised if he got whiplash from the force of it. 

His eyes zero in on Ian so fast it’s like he’s a beacon. And Ian knows he kind of is – he’s taller than most people, and his hair is bright, he’s always easy to spot in a crowd – but it’s also more than that. It’s Mickey and Ian. It’s Mickey finding Ian. It’s Ian finding Mickey. It wouldn’t matter if he shrunk half a foot and shaved his head, Mickey would still always be able to find him. That must be it, some kind of magic between them, because Mickey is _here_. 

Somehow, Mickey is here. In New York. In Hell’s Kitchen. On this street, a random block that the he couldn’t have possibly known Ian would be, feet in front of him now, mouth slightly gaping, eyes wide like maybe he thinks this is a hallucination, too. 

“Mickey.” It’s a breath this time, because they’re close enough now that, even with the noise of the city around them, that’s all they need. 

“Ian.” The other boy’s voice cracks when he says it. So much awe, disbelief, and relief cluttering up his tone. 

Ian doesn’t know what his own emotions are doing, but for the first time in a long time – a _really_ fucking long time – he feels all of them, one right after anther like a whirlwind, or something even stronger than that. A cyclone of hope, relief, guilt, want, desperation, fear, desire, trust, nostalgia, and love. 

“Mick?” It comes out like a question because some part of him still doesn’t know how to believe this. He’s seeing it, hearing it, feeling everything about this moment in bright flashes of neon clarity, but it’s so much, too much. Shock, maybe. Maybe he’s in shock. 

“Ian.” Mickey’s voice isn’t a question. It’s a breath that sounds reverent. 

Ian’s never been much of a believer in fate or divine intervention or destiny or anything like that – can’t be, with the life he’s led – but maybe there’s something to it, after all. Maybe there is some higher power or karmic force interested in balancing the scales every once in a while. 

They’re right in front of each other now, an unmoving pair that the rest of the city, maybe the rest of the world, adjusts to. The universe doesn’t stop, time doesn’t stand still, but the two of them do, and everything else continues on around them, allowing them their bubble. 

“You found me.” Ian hears himself say the words, hears the way his breath is still labored from running. “How did you find me?” 

Mickey’s shock disappears quickly, like Ian’s voice is a vacuum for all his doubt. “Your brother helped.” 

Ian doesn’t know what the means. Then again, yes he does. Lip is a genius, always has been, and Ian has spent his whole life with that force in his corner and he forgets, a lot, the true scope of its value. 

“I can’t believe you found me.” Ian says, because he can’t, he really can’t. This isn’t the way his life is supposed to work. 

“C’mere.” Mickey says it like a demand and a plea, all wrapped together in one. It doesn’t matter, wouldn’t have mattered if it had been a question or a curse. Ian does as he’s told because what the fuck else is he going to do? In this moment, their moment, there’s only one thing he wants. 

They meet in the middle. The space between them dwindles to nothing as their lips meet. 

It feels like coming home. 

And, shit, he knows that’s such a fucking cliché, but it doesn’t even matter because the truth of it overpowers everything else. He’s home now. 

***  
***

Ian kisses him like he’s fifteen again. Like they’re still in Chicago, making out in the stockroom of the Kash-N-Grab, under the L at midnight, in Ian’s bedroom hoping and praying that none of his siblings walk in on them. 

Ian kisses him just the same, and Mickey sighs into it, let’s the other boy feel his relief. Because he really hadn’t been sure, if anything would be the same. And of course it’s not, everything else has changed, but not this, not the two of them. 

Ian’s hand come comes up to cup the back of his neck while the other paws at his hip. Mickey shudders at the touch and inhales sharply. Ian smells like smoke and some kind of disinfectant, probably related to the cuts on his face, but deeper down, underneath all that, it’s just Ian. The faintly musky, absurdly sharp, almost clean smell that he’s always had. 

Mickey shivers again, and tightens his own hands where they’re grasping hard at Ian’s biceps. He knows he’s squeezing too tight, that there will probably be bruises later, but Mickey doesn’t care. Let Ian remember this, feel it days from now. 

He doesn’t know which of them deepens the kiss, but soon their tongues are lapping at one another’s, trying to push deeper, as deep as they can, into each other’s mouths. Their desire to devour seems to be matched in intensity and Mickey doesn’t even care that they’re in the middle of a street with dozens of people all around them, he pulls Ian closer until their hips are slotted together. They fit perfectly like that, their bodies designed to connect like some otherworldly force of nature. 

Ian pulls back with a gasp, and then a groan. He’d been out of breath when this had started, that’s all it is, Mickey realizes after an initial swell of panic; Ian’s not trying to get away, he just needs to breathe. If anything, he seems to want to be closer; wraps one of his arms all the way around Mickey’s neck and tilts his own head so he can nuzzle it into the crevice of his shoulder. He burrows and nips and pulls until he finds Mickey’s skin underneath the collar of his shirt, breathing deeply a few times and then kissing Mickey there, too, biting lightly, sucking the salt right off of his skin. 

Mickey chuckles breathlessly, happy beyond comprehension. His own head’s right about at Ian’s shoulder and he doesn’t want to move away any more than Ian seems to. He follows the other boy’s lead and breathes him in. God, that smell. 

He wraps both his arms around Ian’s waist and fumbles until his hands are under his shirt, splayed out on the bare skin of his back, then up over the wings of his shoulder blades. He claws at the sharp, protruding bones there, smirking when Ian hisses at the rake of his nails but still makes no effort to pull back. 

Ian kisses his neck, right over the bruise he’d just made, and then up along the side of his throat, his ear, and the jut of his jaw. Mickey’s breathing is shaky, he can hear that much, but Ian’s is, too, so it doesn’t matter. The redhead’s lips eventually find his face again, and he kisses the corner of Mickey’s mouth, his cheek, the bridge of his nose. 

Mickey hums and tilts his head back, almost without thinking, baring his neck like an offering because it _is_. Everything he has, everything he is, is Ian’s. Maybe if he shows him that, if he makes him feel it, the other boy will come home with him. 

Ian sucks hard at his Adam’s apple and Mickey’s hips jerk. He can feel his dick twitch in his jeans. 

“Fuck, _Ian_ ,” he breathes, “missed you.” 

Ian hums, and Mickey can feel the smile against his skin. 

“Yo, assholes,” a random stranger breaks the moment, shatters it like glass, and Mickey can feel the shards piercing his soul, “this isn’t a fucking brothel, guys, take it somewhere private.” 

Mickey pulls away on instinct. Not because he’s embarrassed, not even because he’s afraid – because he isn’t, not anymore – but because there’s anger in the man’s tone, and Mickey steps in front of Ian with an immediate urge to defend. 

But the guy – some random middle aged white dude in a polo, who’s sticking his head out of the front door of the store he and Ian had unknowingly stopped in front of – doesn’t look like he hates them. He doesn’t want to bash them because of who they are. He’s pissed, yeah, but it doesn’t take Mickey more than a glance to see that it’s about where they are and what they’re doing, not who they’re doing it with. 

So he flicks the guy off with an eyeroll, but obediently drags Ian away from the front of the store all the same. They make it about ten feet, to the archway of a bar that clearly hasn’t opened for the night yet, before Ian’s stepping into his space again, pushing him against the brick wall. 

It’s not exactly private, but the hollowed alcove feels close enough for now. 

“Mick,” Ian’s voice is breathy and low. He runs his hands up and down Mickey’s torso and rakes his eyes over every part of him, “fuck, I missed you, too.” 

Mickey takes a deep breath and waits for Ian’s gaze to land on his again. His eyes are different. Still green, deep, and overflowing with emotions – always with his heart on his sleeve, this guy, Mickey’s guy – but they’re shadowed now, too. That young, carefree, I-can-conquer-the-world confidence is gone, and in its place there’s a darkness that Mickey hates. 

“Come home with me.” He says. It’s not a demand. He means for it to be, he’s pretty sure, but the words come out thready and pleading. 

“Mickey.” Ian sighs, and there’s something in his voice, something telling, but Mickey can’t read it, can’t read _him_ anymore. And that, _that_ fucking terrifies him. He takes a step back. 

Ian reaches out immediately, desperately, threading their fingers together and holding on tight like he’s afraid. Scared that if they aren’t touching Mickey will disappear. 

Reality comes crashing back then, all at once. 

Mickey remembers that Ian’s brain is all fucked up now, that he’d run away, that he’s living with a guy who had _hurt_ him, and that maybe he really does believe Mickey will vanish in the blink of an eye. 

He doesn’t pull his hand away. He uses his free one to card through Ian’s hair and then, after a beat and with a touch of hesitance, he traces the fresh cut over Ian’s eyebrow. “What happened there, huh?” 

Ian smiles a little, softly but not pained. “Poker game.” 

Mickey cocks his head to the side, questioning. 

“It doesn’t matter.” Ian insists with a sigh. “I’m fine.” 

“You’re fine?” Mickey repeats, nodding a few times with obvious disbelief. “You fine with that douchebag who beats on you, too?” 

Ian’s brow furrows, a flurry of emotions scattering across his features and settling eventually into confusion. “Douchebag? You mean Nate?” 

“Nate.” Mickey snorts. “Sure. Him.” 

“How do you know Nate?” 

“Oh, we all had a nice long chat.” His sarcasm comes out a lot softer than it usually does, some part of him holding back so Ian doesn’t think Mickey’s pissed at him. “Told us you got hurt in Tennessee. Didn’t go into detail, but it doesn’t take a genius, Ian.”

The redhead’s confusion lingers. “Nate told you about that? When the fuck…how long have you been here?” 

“Few hours.” Mickey explains. Usually he wouldn’t feel the need to spell it out like this, go into so much detail about the logistics, but he doesn’t want to mess with Ian’s head, fuck with his thoughts like that. So, if Ian has a question, if he needs the timeline drawn out to help keep him grounded, then that’s what Mickey will do. Doesn’t mean he’s going to hide his feelings about Ian’s fuck buddy roommate, though. “Mandy and your brother are here, too. He tracked you down. Don’t know how.” 

Ian smiles at that, pride replacing his confusion, momentarily. “Of course he did.” 

“Did you want him to?” Mickey asks, the thought just occurring to him. “Is that why you called Mandy?” 

Ian’s smile falters. “Maybe.” He shrugs and looks away, but grips Mickey’s hand tighter. “Didn’t think about it like that, exactly, but I’ve been wondering…I’ve been wondering lately if maybe I should go back.” He swallows thickly, and Mickey’s heart skips a beat. “Felt fine at first, y’know? Being gone. Or, well, didn’t feel like anything for a while. It’s…” his eyes narrow again, focus on Mickey, “They told you, right? What…what I’ve…about…”

“Yeah.” Mickey interrupts the stuttering. “They told me you’re bipolar.” Ian cringes at Mickey’s blunt use of the word and glances away. “ _Hey_.” The older boy says sharply. He lifts the hand that’s still in Ian’s grip and uses his other to circle the redhead’s wrist, rubbing soothing circles at his pulse point. “I’m here, ain’t I?” 

“I don’t want…” Ian takes a deep breath, looks anywhere but at Mickey, “I don’t want you to…I mean, if you don’t understand…you’re not stuck with me, y’know? You don’t _have_ to –”

“Shut the fuck up, Ian.” Mickey snaps, cutting off the stilted I’m-giving-you-an-out speech before it can even really begin. “I know what it means, alright? I fucking _read_ about it. I listened to your _brother_ talk about it.” He sighs dramatically, entirely for show. “I hate reading. And your brother. You still think I want out of this? Hmm?” 

Ian finally looks at him. His eyes are soft again. Still kind of clouded, darker than they were a year ago, but maybe that’s just the way he is now, after everything. Mickey can learn to live with that. 

“How was prison?” 

The older boy snorts, accepting the change in topic because it’s obvious that Ian needs a break. “Y’know, not as bad as I thought it’d be.” 

“Yeah?” Ian questions lightly, but with genuine curiosity. 

“Got minimum security.” Mickey shrugs. This is the first time he’s answered that question with any kind of seriousness, because on some level he’d been waiting for it to be Ian doing the asking. “No gang wars or any fucking stupid shit like that. Worked out a lot.” 

“I can tell.” Ian eyes his biceps with a wicked glint, and Mickey feels himself flushing. 

“Shut up.” He mutters, not meaning it. “Took the GED.” 

“Get the fuck out.” Ian’s surprise is happy and sincere. Mickey allows himself, for the first time, to truly feel pride over that particular accomplishment. 

He ducks his head, a little embarrassed, but mostly happy. “Yeah, man.” He smiles because he can still feel Ian’s eyes on him. “Not like it’s gonna do me much good, havin’ a fucking felony conviction and all that, but, y’know.” He shrugs again. “Had this fucking dumbass cellmate who kept trying to con me into it. Finally did so I could stay with his wife for a while after I got out.”

“Why’d you wanna stay with her?” Ian’s question is mostly curious, but Mickey detects a nugget of jealousy buried underneath, and something flares to life in his gut. Ian still wants him like that. Enough to care. Maybe getting him back isn’t such a longshot, after all. 

“Had to wait for Iggy to get out.” Mickey explains. He presses his thumb a little harder into Ian’s wrist. “Or, I dunno, wanted to, I guess. Fucking shit ass city, though. My next-door neighbor was a literal goddamn cow.” 

Ian laughs loudly, and Mickey looks up just to see the crinkle around his eyes. Fuck, he’s missed this guy. His guy. 

No matter what happens next, Ian will always be his guy. 

“Terry got put away for life.” He shares suddenly, knowing that while Mandy and his brothers feel the same relief he does at their father being gone, Ian’s the only person who will truly understand what his incarceration means for _Mickey_. “Well, for twenty-five years. Fucking moron killed an undercover cop. He’ll never make parole. Probably gonna die there.” 

“Good.” Ian breathes. “Shit. That’s fucking amazing.” 

Mickey smiles wide. “It really fucking is.” 

Ian kisses him again then. Leans forward and captures his lips like they’re not standing in the doorway of some bar in Hell’s Kitchen. Mickey might be more put out by it if they hadn’t been basically dry humping each other in the middle of the sidewalk less than ten minutes ago (shit, had he really _done_ that?).

This kiss isn’t as intense as the last one, but it goes on for a while. Full minutes of almost gentle pressing and tongues lazily tracing. Ian tugs at his bottom lip with his teeth at one point and Mickey whimpers, hoping that the buzz of noise from the street next to them muffles it – hoping at the same time that it _doesn’t_. He wants Ian to know how much Mickey wants him. 

Nathan hadn’t seemed the type to give in to Ian’s innate need for dominance, and Mickey’s sure that their sex life lacks because of it. He hopes, anyway. Hopes that he’d read blondie right, because he knows people can be misleading. _Mickey_ sure as fuck doesn’t seem like the type, either, and probably no one would ever guess at the shit that gets him off sometimes. Hell, he hadn’t even been fully aware of it until Ian had been gone. Well, he had, he just hadn’t ever been forced to confront it directly, think about what it means outside of the moments when it had actually been happening. 

But after so many long nights alone in his jailcell, then later in Tammy’s spare bedroom, he’d sort of had to accept it. Because more often than not, any time his thoughts had drifted to sex, whenever he’d been craving that physical release and trying his best to keep the emotions out of it, he found that that’s where his mind had gone: the memory of Ian’s hands wrapped around his wrists, tugging them over his head, telling him to stay still, gripping his hips too tight, putting him wherever he wanted, controlling him, telling him how good it felt, how good _he_ was, losing himself in Mickey’s body, his want an overwhelming force, and Mickey responding to all of it in kind. 

Yeah, it hadn’t taken him long to come to terms with the fact that he’s a kinky bastard. But he’s okay with that, because clearly Ian is, too. It’s just another one of those things that shouldn’t make them stronger together but does anyway. And Mickey knows that he’s not the only person in the world who likes it like that, likes sex better when he’s not in control, but Ian hadn’t run away to New York with the cast of a BDSM porno, and _Nathan’s_ the only person Mickey has to worry about. And if it comes right down to competing with the guy over sex, if his ass and his dick – with it’s never ending love for Ian’s forcefulness in bed – is what it’s going to take to get the redhead to come home with him, well, Mickey’s not above using that as a bargaining chip. He’s not above anything, at this point. 

Their hands stay above their clothing as they kiss, this time around. No groping. Mickey’s a little disappointed but also not. He wants to get swept up in Ian – fuck has he missed it, the reality of where his spank bank fantasies had come from – but there are other things he has to know first. 

The kiss eventually winds down, and as soon as it does Mickey’s talking again. 

“Are you going to come home?” 

Ian tilts his head back and closes his eyes. Mickey recognizes the gesture well; it means Ian wants to hide from something that he knows it’s impossible to hide from. Mickey angles his body a little closer and reaches up to trace his fingers through Ian’s hair, from his temple to base of his skull. He does that six times before the redhead opens his eyes and looks at him again. 

“I really was planning on it.” He says, bringing them back to the conversation they’d started earlier. “I just didn’t expect…shit, seeing you here, in New York…I still can’t wrap my head around it, y’know?”

Mickey hums. He doesn’t know. Ian had been real to him the moment they’d touched. “How is that head of yours?” He asks gently, treading so very lightly, because he has no idea where the boundaries are with this, yet. He keeps his hand wrapped around the back of Ian’s neck, but lets his fingers curl up in his hair over and over. “Fucktard said you’ve been talking your pills off and on?” Ian narrows his gaze at that, but Mickey doesn’t let it deter him. “Lip says that can be worse than not taking them at all.” 

“Wow.” Ian finally responds, sounding truly shocked for a moment. Mickey quirks an eyebrow and tries not to let Ian see how nervous he is. “I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you call Lip by his actual name.” 

Mickey exhales almost shakily and tugs a tad too hard on a strand of Ian’s hair. 

“Ow, fuck, sorry.” He laughs, but does nothing to try to get Mickey’s hand away from him. A few beats of silence pass. “Nathan said that, huh?” 

“He said a lot.” Mickey answers evasively. “Guy doesn’t seem too hot on respecting your privacy.” 

Ian snorts. “Yeah, I never could tell if that was a Southern thing or if he’s just kinda clueless.” 

Mickey likes that – the way Ian’s talking about the guy like he doesn’t matter much, like leaving him wouldn’t hurt at all. 

“I call asshole.” 

Ian chuckles. “Yeah, I guess.” He shrugs. There might be some feelings there, Mickey notes. Probably has to be, with them living together and all, but Mickey doesn’t really care. 

_“What you do while you’re waiting doesn’t matter as much, I don’t think, as what you do once you get them back.”_

As long as Ian chooses him, Mickey won’t give a single flying shit what Ian had done while he was gone. It’s not like they’d made each other any promises. Ian doesn’t _owe_ him anything. All Mickey wants is a second chance. 

“Nate and me,” Ian pauses for a second, as if trying to choose his words carefully, “we don’t _talk_. He doesn’t know everything I do. Hell, he doesn’t know much about me at all. I wouldn’t…take anything he said too seriously.”

“Okay.” Mickey agrees, all too willing to accept that. He’s never liked getting secondhand information, anyway. “So why don’t _you_ tell me what’s been going on with you.”

Ian exhales low and long, tilts his head back slightly and then cringes suddenly. Mickey’s eyes narrow. “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” Ian nods, “just think I tweaked something.” His hand goes up to his neck then, starts rubbing at the pressure point between it and his shoulder. Mickey makes a noise low in the back of his throat, unthreads his fingers from Ian’s hair, and takes over the gentle massage for him. 

Ian’s eyes go wide, like it’s some kind of holy feat of god and the apostles that Mickey’s touching him like that, trying to help, wanting him to feel better. 

It kind of stings. Mickey knows he should feel good, at the appreciation in Ian’s gaze, but honestly, with how much shock and awe he’s got mixed up in there, too, it hurts. It shouldn’t be such a surprise to the redhead, that Mickey wants him to feel good, that he’s willing to help. 

But, there’s nothing he can do to change that right now. Nothing will change that, probably, except Ian getting used to it. Which means Mickey will have to keep doing it, over and over, until it’s just one of those things that he does, that Ian accepts and maybe even kind of loves about him. 

Mickey’s pretty okay with that, commitment and all. 

“What have Lip and Mandy told you?” Ian asks, as Mickey continues to work his fingers into the tendon in his neck. 

“Fuck what they’ve told me, Ian.” Mickey says, his tone gentle despite his words. “You tell me what happened.” 

“I don’t remember all of it.” Ian bites his lip and tries to look away again, but moving his head changes the pressure of Mickey’s fingers and he hisses, turning back almost immediately. Mickey hadn’t meant to do it, but he smirks proudly at the results. Ian rolls his eyes, but doesn’t try to move away. 

“Tell me what you do remember.” Mickey presses. 

Shit, he can’t recall a time in his life where he’d ever been this eager to have a conversation. Usually talking about his feelings is right up there at the very top of his would-willingly-shoot-himself-in-the-foot-to-get-out-of-doing-it list. 

That’s Ian fucking Gallagher, though. Truly and thoroughly ruining everything Mickey had thought he’d known about himself. 

“It’s a lot, Mick.” Ian finally sighs. “A lot of shit you probably don’t wanna hear.” 

“Try me.” He challenges, even though he already knows Ian’s right. But this isn’t about Mickey. This is about Ian not having to carry all of this shit alone anymore, it’s about Mickey being here, right here, and Ian realizing that he’s not going anywhere. 

Eventually, Ian tells him. It’s not everything, definitely not even everything he remembers, but, as promised, it is a lot. Ian tells him about being in the army and that brief window where everything had felt right and good and like maybe that could be his life. He tells Mickey about how it had all started to fall apart and how he hadn’t even noticed it happening – he’d tried to steal a helicopter, set the damn thing on fire in the process, gone AWOL, and come back to Chicago without telling anyone – but his brain had distorted reality so much that he honestly hadn’t seen the flaws in his actions until later. 

Mickey doesn’t like hearing about how he’d hooked up with that Viagra-popping grandpa again, but he’d already known about that, so it’s not so bad. Then Ian tells him about dancing at a club and giving blowjobs for money, and Mickey definitely _hadn’t_ known about that, and really, _really_ doesn’t like hearing about it, but Ian needs him to know so he bites his tongue and kisses the redhead softly to let him know that he’s not mad. And he’s _not_ mad. None of this is Ian’s fault. 

With every word, every story, every deep flush of Ian’s cheeks and nervous flick of his eyes – _Are you pissed yet? Are you going to leave?_ – Mickey’s resolve grows stronger. 

No matter what happens between them next, Mickey’s going to do everything in his power to make sure Ian gets the help he needs. It’s not fucking fair, that someone like Ian has to live with something like this. But, that’s life, isn’t it? _Not fair_ is like it’s fucking calling card. Mickey’s used to that. So is Ian. No use dwelling on what can’t be changed. It’s up to them now, to alter the course. And fighting? Well, fighting’s something they’re both pretty damn good at. Especially when they’re together. 

Ian glosses over the time he’d spent with his mother in Tennessee, how he’d met Nathan, and whatever had happened that had landed him the hospital – _“I’ll tell you later.”_ Ian had said, when Mickey had asked him about it directly. 

_“When?”_ The older boy had pressed. 

_“When you and Nate are a solid state or two away from each other.”_ – 

And Mickey might have gotten pissed about that, until he’d realized what it implied about Ian coming home. 

“What about the pills?” Mickey finally asks. They’ve been talking for a while now. Long enough that they’d had to leave the sheltered doorway of the bar – both because they’d gotten sick of standing and because the bar itself had opened up for the night – and had wandered instead to a nearby park. It’s not one of the famous ones people from New York are always raving about, only has a few smattering of trees, some picnic tables, and a smaller fountain, but the benches are comfortable enough. 

No one seems to care that Ian and Mickey are sitting together like they are – Ian’s arm around him, with Mickey leaning against him heavily – and Ian says it’s not really that people in New York are more accepting than people anywhere else, “It’s just that everyone here is inherently selfish. Really.” He insists when Mickey snorts. “I’ve been here for months, I’ve noticed shit, alright? I saw a dude walking around the other day dressed like a unicorn. Like, literally a fucking unicorn. You think _this_ is gay?” He gestures vaguely to the way they’re sitting. “People in this city are _weird_ , man, and it’s cool because no one gives a shit unless it affects them. Selfish to the core, but, y’know, it’s kind of awesome.” 

“You like it here.” Mickey notes. He’s got one hand resting on Ian’s chest, and he feels it when his breath stutters. 

“I do.” He admits softly. “Not…y’know, the way I got here or what I’ve been doing or…anything else.” Nathan, Mickey’s pretty sure (hoping) he means Nathan. “But yeah, I kinda love the city.” 

“You wanna stay?” 

Ian shakes his head quickly, and Mickey breathes his relief subtly into Ian’s t-shirt. 

“I mean, maybe one day we could come back.” He says, trying to sound casual, and if Mickey didn’t know him so well, he’d almost fall for it. “But right now, right now I think I need to be in Chicago.” 

Mickey doesn’t comment on the _we_ or the _come back_. If he pushes too hard, if he looks too deep…It’s better to just let some things be. He can hold onto them easier, that way. 

That’s when he asks, “What about the pills?” and Ian explains that he had been bad for a while about taking them consistently. They made him feel numb and dead inside at first. And Monica hadn’t wanted him to, had begged him not to, so he hadn’t. Then for a while, when he first got to New York, he’d just let himself be manic. Then something had happened – he’s vague again about what, evasive when asked – and afterwards he’d gone to a clinic. It had taken a while, to get the balance right, and it’s really only been in the past couple weeks that he’s felt anything close to normal again. 

“It’s still hard.” Ian tells him, and the way he says it sounds like a warning. “Sometimes I don’t wanna get outta bed. Or I wake up freaking out, paranoid.”

“What do you do when that happens?” Mickey asks, because he’s going to need to know. 

Ian tells him everything he can, but Mickey gets the sense that a lot of those moments are muddled for him, and resolves to coming up with his own solutions, when the need arises. 

“Mickey…” Ian starts a little while later, when they both get the feeling that their conversation, this whole bubble where only the two of them exist, is rapidly coming to a close. “I know you told me to fuck off before, but I really need you to know that this isn’t…it doesn’t have to be your problem, okay? It’s so much to deal with, and I spent my whole life watching Frank and Fiona and everyone else try to do it, with Monica, and I don’t wanna fucking do that to you, okay? It’d kill me if I…if I broke you with this.” 

“You can’t break me, Gallagher.” Mickey scoffs. 

Ian sits up straighter suddenly, shuffles around until Mickey’s forced to move, too. He huffs his displeasure at that, glaring at the redhead heartily. The amount of guilt he sees in his expression, though, knocks the breath right out of his chest. 

“Shit, Ian.” Mickey breathes, stunned. “You honestly think you’re anything like your mom?” 

“I know I am.” He nods forlornly. 

“Fuck that.” Mickey spits, not giving Ian a chance to counter him. “Nah, man. I’ve never met her, so maybe I’ve got it wrong or whatever, but your mom sounds like a selfish bitch. A selfish fucking drug addict _bitch_. Just like my mom was.” Ian’s eyes go wide, and Mickey knows that’s the first time he’s ever mentioned his mom to Ian. Fuck, it’s the first time he’s mentioned his mom out loud in half a decade or more. Ian reaches out and squeezes his thigh firmly. Mickey accepts the silent comfort but keeps talking, because this is important. “And she’s got this thing in her head that makes her high and low and all that shit, and _that_ ain’t her fault, just like it’s not yours, but, man, Ian…she’s had it for years. Decades. She knows how to control it but she _doesn’t_. Doesn’t even wanna try because it’s like a fucking high, right? That’s what you said, isn’t it? Being manic is like the best high there is?”

“Yeah.” Ian chokes. 

“And she’s a fucking addict.” Mickey reiterates. “You’re not, man. You ain’t like her and you’re not like fucking Frank, either. You’re seventeen years old, Ian. You’ve had this shit fucking up your head for less than a year, and you’re already dealing with it better than Monica has in her whole fucking life. So just…y’know. Shut the fuck up about being like her. Because you’re not.” 

Ian huffs lowly, and then chuckles. It’s a little watery, but he’s not crying or anything, so Mickey figures he didn’t do anything wrong, at least. Eventually he whispers, “I can’t believe you just said all that.” 

Mickey glances away, not sure if that’s a good thing or not. 

Ian squeezes his leg tightly until Mickey glances back. “That was literally the nicest fucking thing anyone’s ever said to me.” He meets Mickey’s gaze head on, his eyes shining brightly. “You need to know that.” 

“Whatever, man.” He tries to play it off because intense emotion isn’t exactly his forte. Ian doesn’t let him. 

“Seriously, Mick.” He presses. “If shit ever hits the fan again, if I’m ever…y’know, lost or whatever, in my head, if I can think clearly, for even a second, _that’s_ what I’m going to fucking remember. That speech you just made. This, us. Right here. On a park bench in New York.” 

“This.” Mickey repeats, swallowing thickly. 

“Us.” Ian finishes. 

The words resonate like a promise.

___________________________________________________

**Next Time:**

_Following the course of his own thoughts, and sharing them out loud because the car is dark and the road is loud and this feels like a good place to tell each other secrets, Mickey adds, “You know I’m always gonna find you, right?”_

___________________________________________________


	12. There’s Space for a Paper Airplane Race (In the Eye of a Hurricane)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Reunion: Part 2. Now with sex :) 
> 
> Chapter title from the Bad Religion song "All There Is"

**\--XII--**

_There’s Space for a Paper Airplane Race (In the Eye of a Hurricane)_

***  
***

“Fucking Christ, Ian.” Mandy is the first to say anything, once they get back to the apartment. 

Ian cringes at the relief in her tone, hating that he’d made her worry that much. Childishly, he wants to cling to Mickey, hide behind the other man so he doesn’t have to face the inevitable fallout of his actions. And Lip and Mandy aren’t even the hard ones. He really dreads seeing Fiona. 

“Hey.” He smiles, trying his best to keep it light. “You miss me?” 

Mandy scoffs and then strides over to him like she already knows exactly what she’s going to do next – like she’s planned it. Ian really can’t help it when he cringes. 

And she does hit him – smacks his arm hard enough to sting – but a second after that she’s wrapped around him, clinging to his waist with her face buried in his shirt. “Fuck you.” She mumbles. Ian looks at Mickey and then Lip from over her head, but they both shrug, obviously too scared to interfere. Ian doesn’t really blame them. “Never fucking do that again, you hear me.” She pulls back just enough to smack his other arm. “Never.” 

“I’ll try my best.” He says, finally returning her hug. It’s not the same as being close to Mickey or his siblings. Mandy’s always been something else entirely; not exactly family, never a lover – his best friend, but more than that, too. She’s _Mandy_. And Ian had missed her so fucking much. “I promise.” 

Lip is easier. He says, “New York? Really?” And then bro-hugs the shit out of him. He whispers, “Missed ya, little brother,” as they’re pulling away, and that’s pretty much it. Sometimes he and Lip clash with the force of warring demigods, ready to strike a match to the earth’s core if it means winning a battle against the other. But when they don’t, when the want to _hurt_ or _win_ isn’t present, they exist together with an almost unfathomable ease, no matter what the circumstances. 

Ian takes a deep breath once the greetings are over. He and Mickey are side-by-side again, and Ian can’t even remember if he’d done that, if the older boy had, or if the two of them are just drawn together that naturally. He glances around the apartment. “Where’s Nate?” 

Lip and Mandy share a quick glance with one another, like they’re not sure what it means, him asking that question. After a second, Lip scratches at the back of his neck and mutters, “Bathroom.” 

Ian nods once and then exhales shakily, steeling himself. Stupidly, he wants to take Mickey with him for this next part, but he knows he can’t. Nate is his responsibility. So, he just squeezes the other boy’s arm and says, “I’ll be right back,” without meeting anyone’s eyes. 

The bathroom is the only place in Nate’s apartment that can be considered private. It’s got the only door, besides the front one, and Ian closes it behind him as soon as he steps inside. 

Nathan is rubbing a towel over his hair, clearly having just gotten done taking a shower. His cock is flaccid between his thighs and Ian finds himself staring at it, for a moment. 

Sometimes, he lets Nathan fuck him, even though, no matter how many times he does it, he’s not a big fan of being penetrated. The only time he’s ever really enjoyed sex that way was the one time he’d let Mickey do it. And even that had been more about trust and the novelty of trying something new. 

“He ain’t anything like what I pictured.” Nate says, drawing Ian’s attention back to his face. The other man huffs, and wraps the towel around his waist. 

“No?” Ian prompts, not really wanting to hear this part but knowing that he kind of owes it to Nate to listen, if he wants to talk about it. 

“Figured he’d be taller.” Nate explains, leaning back slightly against the sink. Even standing as far away as he can, Ian’s still close to him. The bathroom is tiny. “Maybe a blonde.” He shrugs. “You always seem to go for those.” 

“Yeah.” Ian agrees, a flurry of unwanted memories assaulting him – guys he’d met in clubs, in grocery stores, at parties, walking down the street. Guys he’d fucked because he’d needed to feel something, or to stop feeling everything. Sex he’d wanted, sex he hadn’t, sex that he doesn’t even remember. “Kinda the opposite, I guess.” He shrugs. “Didn’t wanna…I dunno. Ruin it.”

Nate nods like he understands. Hell, maybe he does. For as much as Nathan doesn’t know anything about him, Ian might know even less in turn. They hadn’t dated in any traditional sense, they don’t talk much, and sometimes Ian’s not even there. He’d spent weeks on end disappearing for long stretches, just like his mother always had. 

“Do you think I act like Monica?” Ian asks suddenly. Because Mickey’s speech in the park had meant the world to him, and he hadn’t been lying when he’d told the other boy he would always remember it, but he also knows it isn’t that simple. Maybe with Mickey he’ll never fuck up that bad, maybe the love of his life will never have to see the depths to which he can spiral out of control and hurt people with his disease, but Ian doesn’t love Nate, and he knows now that a lot of the shit he’d done while they’d been together had been fucked up. 

“Ian…” Nate trails off for a moment, like he’s trying to decide how to answer that, if he wants to be honest or not. Ian squares his shoulders and juts out his chin, drawing his expression into something challenging. He wants the truth. The taller man sighs. “Man, when I met you, you were living in a trailer with six other people, making and taking meth.” 

Ian inhales sharply but doesn’t look away. “One of those people was your cousin.” 

“Which is how I know how fucked up that place was.” Nate agrees, not rising to the bait at all. “Why the fuck do you think I moved to New York?” 

Ian concedes his point with a slight nod. Nate keeps talking. “Everyone out there is fucking crazy. She fit in. You fit in. I wasn’t out there on a fucking vacation, okay? I had my own shit to deal with. You were just…I don’t even fucking know.” He chuckles darkly. “You came back with me. She took off. That makes you different, I guess.”

“But I kept taking off here, too.” Ian points out, not sure why he wants so badly to push this. “I don’t…fuck. I didn’t even know what I was doing, half the time.” 

“But you know now.” Nate doesn’t phrase it like a question. Ian guesses it’s not. 

“I don’t know…I don’t know what would’ve happened to me,” he admits quietly, finding the words as he goes, “if I hadn’t had a place to come back to.” He sniffs and meets Nate’s gaze directly. His eyes – brown, hard, and a little hazy from the pills he’d probably popped before his shower – aren’t familiar at all. “I just…thank you. For never kicking me out.” 

Nate nods once, accepting Ian’s gratitude. “You’re leaving now, though, aren’t you?” 

He doesn’t sound too upset and he’s obviously not surprised. Maybe he’d seen it coming. Maybe Ian’s newfound stability had made it apparent – how much he doesn’t belong here. 

“I have to go home.” 

“Yeah,” Nate sighs, turning around suddenly and rummaging through the medicine cabinet. Ian hears the rattle of a pill bottle and watches, without much emotion, as Nate swallows another two Percocet. “Kinda figured.” He adds, when he turns back around. 

“Were those the tens or the fives?” Ian asks. 

“Fives.” Nate answers. “Got’em cheap from Hector ‘cause the cops raided his place again.” 

“Take an Adderall with you for later.” Ian reminds him. “Those’ll wear off in a few hours and you’ll get cranky as shit after you eat.” 

“Donnie’s used to it.” Nate rolls his eyes, but Ian knows he’ll take the pill anyway. Ian’s gotten pretty good at figuring out how pills affect people. 

“Are you pissed?” Ian asks, after a stretch of silence that’s more uncomfortable than not. It feels anticlimactic, this whole thing. Mickey, Mandy, and Lip are waiting for him in the other room and all he really wants is to get back to them, but he feels like he has to get some kind of closure first, like he needs it even if Nate doesn’t. “That I’m taking off for good?” 

“It’s been fun, Ian,” Nathan sighs, running a hand through his damp hair, “but you ain’t exactly good for me.” 

Ian’s heart feels tight in his chest. “I’m sorry.” 

Nate shrugs. “Can’t blame you for my shit.” He says it like he’s repeating a mantra. Ian wonders if he’s ever gone to NA, if he’s ever tried for a different kind of life. “And you can’t blame me for yours.”

“I never did.” Ian says honestly. “Being here was just…easier.” 

“Yeah, well.” Nate snorts. “What’s the fun in that?” 

When the taller man turns around again, drops the towel from his waist and starts pulling on his underwear and jeans, Ian knows the moment is over. He knows he should probably feel guilty, but the only emotion he has, once it’s all said and done, is an almost overpowering sense of relief. 

***  
***

“I told Ian once that the only good part about falling for you is that he’d have nowhere to go but up.” Lip says the words bluntly, cutting abruptly into the thick silence that had drifted between the three of them since Ian had disappeared down the hall. Mickey glances over at Ian’s brother, quirking a curious eyebrow at his words even as Mandy slaps him none too gently against the back of his head. 

Mandy glares and Mickey smirks. The older Gallagher doesn’t let either reaction deter him from the point he’s trying to make. “Didn’t think he’d take it as challenge.”

Mickey snorts a little, knowing that’s probably as close to a blessing as he’s ever going to get from Ian’s brother and not really caring, one way or another. Lip’s opinion of him only matters to the degree that it affects Ian, and Mickey’s redhead has made it brazenly apparent on more than a few occasions that he truly doesn’t give a shit what his brother thinks. 

“You think they’re fucking in there?” Lip asks a few moments later, making both Milkovich’s glare this time. He just shrugs in response. “I mean, it’s been a while.” 

“It’s been three minutes.” Mandy rolls her eyes, shooting a quick, weary glance at Mickey. “They’re not fucking.” 

“How do you know?” He asks, almost challengingly, and Mickey can see what he’s doing; that he’s trying to distract her, maybe even distract _him_ , from the unknown of what’s happening fifteen feet to their right. 

“We’d hear it, dipshit.” She points out, nudging him slightly. 

Mickey hates the fondness he hears in her voice. Loving Lip Gallagher is going to destroy her, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. 

“Eh,” Lip shrugs, “six people, four bedrooms, thin walls. We all know how to be quiet.” 

Mickey snorts at that, finally joining the conversation, and Lip looks relieved, confirming Mickey’s theory about why he’s being an asshole right now. “Your brother ain’t the muffle his moans type.” He shares, raising his eyebrows suggestively just to see Lip cringe. He laughs when the other boy starts fake gagging. 

The conversation dwindles down after a beat, and Mickey gets lost again in his own thoughts. He can’t help but think back to one of the last times he and Ian had had sex, what feels like eons ago now, in the Gallagher house. Mickey had been on top of him, riding him – the first time they’d done that, though Mickey had spent a long time before that day fantasizing about it – and Ian had been so pissy about the fact that they’d had to be quiet. He’d gotten pushy, dominant, the way he does sometimes, and Mickey had melted under his rough demeanor, the tight grip of fingers on his hips. He’d admitted to Ian how much he gets off on it, those moments when he’s not in control, and Ian’s gaze had softened, just like Mickey had known it would. 

He’d do anything, now, to see that softness in Ian again. But that’s gone, probably forever; lost to a disease and a whole year of being out of control. Mickey had been gone, unable to protect him from anything, to stop anything, and he hates that. Hates that he’d been trapped behind bars while Ian had been trapped in his own head. He might never stop blaming himself for that. For not just saying yes when Ian had asked him to run away. 

Fucking San Francisco.

They don’t have to wait much longer for Ian and Nathan to emerge from the other room. Less than ten minutes after Ian had disappeared down the hall, he’s back, a freshly showered Nathan trailing behind him. Mickey knows well what Ian looks like after he’s just had sex and this isn’t it, but still the older boy bristles at the redhead’s subdued attitude, the way he won’t meet anyone’s gaze even as he drifts almost subconsciously to Mickey’s side. 

They all watch in silence as Nathan gathers his things, clearly preparing to leave for wherever he goes at night to make money. 

“I’ll slide the key under the door after I lock up.” Ian says, and Mickey’s stomach leaps. Ian had told him he wants to come home, and the three of them had clearly showed up here with that in mind as an endgame, but this – the tiny details of what Ian leaving is actually going to entail – makes it feel so much more real. 

Nathan doesn’t seem perturbed by the declaration, like maybe he doesn’t care much at all, and Mickey just doesn’t get that, how or why he’s not fighting. Sure, it makes Mickey’s life easier, but a part of him still hates it, if only on principal. 

“I’m sorry about what happened in Tennessee.” Nathan says right before he leaves, squaring his shoulders and facing Ian fully. Mickey is beyond annoyed that he still doesn’t know what that means. 

But the redhead just shrugs, and quirks a sort of half-grin like, _hey, what can you do?_ Then he adds, “Sorry about that thing with the beer bottle the other night.” 

Mickey’s not the only one looking on curiously at that, but Nate just shrugs, quickly glancing at all of them and then back to Ian. “Hope it works out, y’know? Everything.” 

Then he’s gone, out the door and out of Ian’s life; forever, if Mickey has any say at all. 

The younger boy exhales once the four of them are alone, turning to face them with a lightness in his expression that hadn’t been there before – and Mickey hates the man that had just left all over again, because no matter how amicable that had seemed, despite the obvious lack of deep emotions tying them together, Nathan’s presence had caused a clear reaction in Ian; a bone deep tension that hadn’t let up until the other man had left. And as much as Mickey doesn’t want to recognize that, and wishes he didn’t, he fucking _had_. 

He and Mandy share a knowing look, brief enough that neither Gallagher catches it, but the communication is crystal clear – _just like mom_. Just like _us_. 

Mickey wants to storm out after the prick that had just left and beat him until he’s bloody, until he’s _dead_. He doesn’t care how complicated this thing between him and Ian had been, doesn’t give a shit that Ian had only left Tennessee – _“It was worse there, Mickey, way worse than anything that Nate could ever fucking do.”_ Ian had told him earlier that afternoon – because of him. You don’t hurt the people you’re fucking. You just don’t. 

But he squashes those impulses because they wouldn’t help a goddamn thing – he’s already won. He turns to Ian, his features softening almost without his consent in response to the nervousness Ian’s wearing suddenly, like he can read Mickey’s thoughts, knows what he’d just figured out and feels guilty for it. _Not your fault _, he tries to say without words. Ian seems to get it.__

__“You ready to get outta this shithole and back to ours?” He asks lightly, smirking slightly to make the mood even more upbeat._ _

__Ian grins wide and nods, accepting the distraction gratefully. “Let’s ride.”_ _

__The redhead doesn’t get it when Mandy and Lip laugh loudly at that, and Mickey doesn’t bother to do more than roll his eyes. He’ll explain it to him later, when Hell’s Kitchen isn’t anything more than a speck in the distance behind them._ _

__***_ _

__It takes Ian less than an hour to pack up all his things, shovel them into the trunk of their borrowed car (Mickey really hopes Mandy had actually _borrowed_ it), and settle into the driver’s seat comfortably. He insists on that, being the one to drive, stating that he knows the city and driving in it at night can be a bitch if you don’t. None of them feel up to arguing about it, so Lip and Mandy dutifully clamor into the back while Mickey takes his spot next to Ian. _ _

__Mickey, Mandy, and Lip had split the drive coming out here, but all of them had been so on edge about what they were doing, what they might find once they tracked Ian down, worried that they wouldn’t even be able to, that none of them had slept at all in between turns behind the wheel. (Maybe that’s more of the reason Ian’s so gung-ho about driving; it can’t be hard to read the exhaustion in all three of them now that the adrenalin is wearing off, and maybe he feels guilty. Or maybe it’s just a control thing; if he’s going to drive away from his life, _he’s_ going to drive away. Maybe Mickey’s thinking about this more than he should be, but now that he is, he can’t actually remember ever having seen Ian drive, before today). _ _

__About an hour into the trip home, with Ian doing perfectly fine behind the wheel, New York City steadily fading into nothing behind them, and the highway darkening more with every passing minute, Lip pipes up from the backseat, “I booked us a couple hotel rooms in Cleveland.”_ _

__Mickey startles at the sudden noise. The radio has been playing since they left – some soft rock station, low in the background – but no one has talked in a while, and Ian’s brother hadn’t given any indication that he was about to. Ian’s hand grips his thigh a moment later, squeezing lightly. Mickey shoots him a look, but Ian’s eyes remain dutifully on the road in front of him._ _

__“Cleveland?” Mandy asks, voice thick like she’d been about to fall asleep._ _

__“It’s halfway between here and home.” Lip says, shrugging. “Figure we’ll need the break.”_ _

__“Good idea.” Mandy mutters absently, then rests her head back on his shoulder and closes her eyes._ _

__“Rooms?” Mickey repeats. “More than one?”_ _

__“Didn’t really think sharing would be a good idea.” Lips responds with a cocky edge, like he already knows exactly what Mickey and Ian are going to do, as soon as they’re alone together._ _

__“How are we paying for that?” Ian asks worriedly, completely disregarding the implication of his brother’s words._ _

__“Hacked the records at a Holiday Inn.” Lip admits, waving his cell phone slightly for Ian to see in the rearview mirror._ _

__“Since when can you do that?” The redhead asks, a quirk on his lips almost like he’s proud._ _

__Fucked up. That’s what the Gallaghers are – perpetually and eternally _fucked up_. _ _

__“Made a friend at school.” Lip shrugs._ _

__Ian laughs. “A criminal friend?”_ _

__The older boy huffs. “Everyone else is boring.”_ _

__“Do me a favor and don’t get kicked out?” Ian requests, still with humor in his tone but there’s a touch of seriousness there now, too. “Between me and Fiona, you’re the only good example Debbie and Liam have left.”_ _

__“Given up on Carl already?” Lip asks, voice that same kind of almost-serious-but-not that must be a Gallagher family trait._ _

__“Him, too.” Ian says, not admitting to anything he might think about his younger brother. Then, after a beat, “How are they doing?”_ _

__“They’re good.” Lip answers immediately, and he sounds sincere, but when Mickey glances at Ian, he can see the way his jaw has gone tense. He reaches down and takes Ian’s hand, where it’s still resting on his thigh. Ian doesn’t comment or even look at him, but he laces their fingers together, adjusting to hold the wheel one-handed._ _

__“Honest answers, please.”_ _

__Lip sighs heavily. “We think Carl’s dealing drugs.”_ _

__“Shit.” Ian breathes, though he doesn’t sound all that surprised._ _

__“Yeah.” Lip agrees. “We don’t really know how to stop him. I think Fiona’s just waiting for him to get busted.”_ _

__“He’ll end up in juvie.”_ _

__“Hey, it ain’t so bad.” Mickey pipes up._ _

__“And it’s what we kinda always knew was gonna happen.” Lip adds, and Mickey isn’t in a position to turn and look at him, but he guesses his face is drawn into the same look of pinched, reluctant acceptance that Ian’s is._ _

__“Still.” Ian exhales, and his shoulders fall a little bit, like he’s choosing, at least for now, to let it go. “What about Debs?”_ _

__“Boy crazy,” Lip chuckles, “but no real drama yet.”_ _

__The brothers talk for a few more minutes – Ian asking probing questions and Lip answering them all with an unfailing honesty – until eventually the conversation pitters out._ _

__A couple songs on the radio after that, Ian says softly, “They both passed out,” jutting his chin towards the rearview mirror._ _

__Mickey glances over his shoulder just enough to see Lip’s head resting on the back of the seat with his arm wrapped around Mandy, who’s curled into his side and is probably much more comfortable than he is, using his chest as a pillow._ _

__Mickey turns back and snorts softly. “We never drove anywhere this far when we were kids,” he finds himself saying, “never knew she was the sleep-in-the-car type.”_ _

__Ian hums thoughtfully. “Lip always was.”_ _

__Mickey’s eyebrows quirk, because the Gallaghers have never been any better off than the Milkovichs, money wise (usually even worse), and he can’t imagine any member of Ian’s family wasting what limited funds they ever did have on something as frivolous as a vacation. Ian must sense his expression, because he doesn’t look over to actually see it._ _

__“Monica used to take us places sometimes, when she was around.” Ian explains. Mickey swallows thickly, because he hadn’t meant to bring this up. “I remember this one time, when she was pregnant with Carl, she picked me and Lip up at school in the middle of the day. Told our principal some lie about a family emergency, then got us in the car and just drove.” Ian takes a deep breath, but doesn’t look sad._ _

__Mickey tries to figure out how old Ian would have been then – six, maybe seven? He forgets how old Carl is. He knows Ian and Lip are barely more than a year apart, just like him and Mandy, so that’s easy to remember, and Fiona’s old enough to be their legal guardian, but the rest of Gallagher siblings get lost in a haze of _younger_ , and that’s as far as Mickey’s ever been able to keep track. _ _

__“We drove for hours.” Ian keeps going, telling this story that Mickey hadn’t asked for and, quite frankly, isn’t sure if he wants to be hearing. “We got all the way to Kansas before we stopped. Lip slept through most of it – we probably wouldn’t have gotten as far as we did if he hadn’t – but I couldn’t. It was the first time I’d ever been out of the state. Hell, out of the city, and I loved it.” His next pause feels heavy. “I think that’s what I was trying to do for Liam, when I took him.”_ _

__Mickey had heard about that incident, but it’s not one of the things that he and Ian had talked about earlier. “Yeah?” He manages, feeling strung out. “Did he like it?”_ _

__“He had a blast.” Ian chuckles, some genuine happiness getting caught up in there. “Just like I did back when it was Monica. But I, I also forgot, y’know? What happened later.”_ _

__“You mean with your mom?” Mickey confirms, trying to keep it straight, wanting to know every detail of this even if he actually doesn’t._ _

__“Yeah.” The redhead admits. “I loved leaving like that, spent the whole time thinking it was some great adventure that she was taking just us on, y’know? But…I always forget what happened after Lip woke up. God, he freaked out that we weren’t in the state anymore, that no one told Fiona or Frank that we were going. He yelled at me like I should have stopped her.”_ _

__“You were a kid.” Mickey defends, feeling a flash of very real anger towards the Gallagher in the backseat._ _

__Ian squeezes his hand tightly. “He didn’t get it yet, back then.” The younger boy explains. “How much different he was, that he was smarter than me by kind of a lot.”_ _

__“Ian.” Mickey sighs._ _

__The other boy laughs softly. “It’s not a feel-bad-for-me thing, Mick, I promise,” he assures. “Lip’s a genius, and we all figured that out eventually, but it’s not like he came out of the womb reciting quadratic equations; there was a long time in there where he would get angry because he didn’t understand why no one else could think the way he did. And that day was the first time I ever saw that, ever felt it, because he was so fucking pissed and I just didn’t get _why_. Not until later. When Monica drove us home after we spent three days in some hotel room in Kansas. _ _

__“When we saw Fiona again, and Debbie. And it looked like they’d both been up and crying for the whole time we’d been gone. Even the way Frank hugged us felt like he actually meant it, y’know? Like he’d been scared, too. Lip knew all of that was going to happen, that’s why he wanted to go back as soon as he realized, but I just…I dunno. I didn’t.”_ _

__“Ian...” Mickey shifts his body again, looks at him steadily until the redhead takes his eyes off the road long enough to mimic the stare. He can’t hold it, has to drive, but that’s okay, Mickey had only wanted his attention. “You were a little kid.” He says again, stronger this time. “If your genius brother figured out that your mom was a nutcase before you did, then good for fucking him, but it doesn’t mean you’ve always thought like her, or had a soft spot for her that your brothers and sisters didn’t.”_ _

__“How’d you know I was thinking that?” Ian asks, his words soft and almost lost in the steady hum of tires against pavement and the rush of wind against the body of the car. It’s fully dark now and they’re well out of the city – there’s a scattering of headlights here and there, along with the occasional streetlight, but mostly there’s just darkness and shadows. Mickey feels almost breathtakingly safe._ _

__“I know you, Ian.” Mickey says, voice landing somewhere smack dab in the middle of _fond exasperation_ and _helplessly in love_. “Get the way you think, most’a the time. You’re under my skin, man.” _ _

__He’s still watching Ian boldly, turned towards him as much as the car will allow, so he doesn’t miss it when the redhead smiles widely, teeth flashing bright in the dark. “Under your skin, huh?”_ _

__“Mmhm.” Mickey shrugs. He’s not afraid of saying this sort of shit to Ian anymore – not when he hadn’t been sure, forty-eight hours ago, if he would ever even see the other boy again. Not after a year of wishing he’d said yes to a younger, desperate Ian that afternoon in his bedroom. Not after finding out that he could have been there when Ian’s life had fallen apart if he’d just chosen a different path. “That…” he has a sudden flash of insecurity. “That alright with you?”_ _

__Ian glances at him again, and Mickey can tell he’s about to get teased well before Ian opens his mouth. Relief settles over him in a strong wave. “Alright with me? You’re implying I have some kinda choice in the matter?”_ _

__Mickey reaches forward with his free hand and smacks the redhead’s chest lightly. “Fuck you, tough guy. You don’t.”_ _

__“Well, alright.” Ian’s laughing again, probably too loud considering their siblings sleeping in the backseat, but Mickey doesn’t care, because Ian’s laugh is one of the best things in the world and he hasn’t heard it nearly enough today – or this year. “Then I guess I’m okay with it.”_ _

__“You better fucking be.” Mickey gripes, feeling almost like himself again – like the stress of looking for, finding, and then begging Ian to come home has slowly began to melt away with reality of actually, finally getting his guy back. Following the course of his own thoughts, and sharing them out loud because the car is dark and the road is loud and this feels like a good place to tell each other secrets, Mickey adds, “You know I’m always gonna find you, right?”_ _

__Ian looks at him again and Mickey can’t read his expression, not entirely, but he gets the sense that Ian _had_ known that, or had at least hoped it. It makes Mickey feel good – proud almost. “I missed you.” He concludes, and the redhead smiles softly in response. _ _

__“I missed you, too.”_ _

__They drive for a long time after that in silence._ _

__***_ _

__It had been an unspoken thing, that whenever they’d switched who was driving, the respective couples would stay together – Lip following Mandy to the front of the car even though Mickey _could_ have stayed in the passenger’s seat. But he’d wanted to be near Ian, and hadn’t regretted that decision at all, even when Lip had smirked knowingly at both of them, and Mandy had smiled fondly. _ _

__And that’s how they’ve stayed, perpetually together – with Ian leaning heavily against Mickey’s side in the backseat and dozing on and off for hours as they’d driven through the painfully boring, rural highways of central Ohio. At this point, Mickey’s officially seen enough cows to last him the rest of his life and then some. He’s beyond relieved when they finally reach something urban again._ _

__Cleveland isn’t much different than any other city, as far as Mickey can tell. They pass the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame as they’re trying to find the hotel – Mandy behind the wheel now, squinting at street signs and driving way too slow – and Mickey has a vague thought about maybe checking that out, while they’re here. It’s not like a couple hours is going to make or break they’re admittedly unplanned schedule._ _

__A car honks loudly behind them suddenly, and Ian jerks violently out of sleep, his head whipping up, away from where it’d been resting against Mickey’s shoulder, with a small gasp._ _

__“Easy,” Mickey’s soothing, before he can even think about it. He reaches over and places his hand against Ian’s chest, applying a solid pressure right above his heart, a little worried at how fast he can feel it beating. “You’re okay, man.”_ _

__Lip’s turned around in his seat, eyeing his brother with concern. “You alright?”_ _

__Mickey glares at the other boy – he’s _got_ this, jesus – but Ian just takes a few deep, steadying breaths, one of his hands reaching out and clasping firmly around Mickey’s wrist. “Yeah, I’m good.” He says. He doesn’t sound it, not entirely, but it’s obvious he’s trying. “Where are we?” _ _

__“ _Fuck_ you.” Mandy half-screams out the open car window, flicking off the driver who had honked at them as he speeds up to pass them by. “I don’t know where the fuck I’m going, okay? Chill the fuck out, asshole.” _ _

__“Road rage much?” Mickey snorts. He rubs barely-there circles into Ian’s chest, paying attention as the redhead’s heartrate slows under his palm._ _

__“We’re in Cleveland.” Lip informs his brother calmly. “Almost at the hotel.”_ _

__Ian hums, blinking a few times and looking steadier with every passing second. “Is Mandy gonna get us killed?”_ _

__“Hey, I’m a good driver.” She snaps, and while Mickey kind of wants to tell her to fuck off, to not be a bitch to Ian right now, he can’t help but notice how her tone actually seems to be helping the taller boy – something about normalcy, probably – and he realizes that there’s a stupidly fine line between taking care of someone and coddling them. “This city has too many bus lanes.”_ _

__“We’re less than a mile away.” Lip tells her patiently. “Just stay to the left, and it should somewhere on the other side of this construction zone.”_ _

__“Before or after the casino?” Mandy asks, and while the both of them are distracted with the what-the-fucks of figuring out where they are, Mickey looks back at Ian._ _

__“You alright?” He asks again, quieter this time. The redhead is pale and a little sweaty, but looks and feels calm enough otherwise._ _

__“Yeah.” Ian licks his lips and swallows, loosening his grip on Mickey’s wrist. “Sorry.”_ _

__“Don’t gotta apologize.” Mickey tells him simply._ _

__Ian smiles softly, and neither of them talk again until Mandy – thankfully without any other angry outbursts – finds their hotel and parks safely._ _

__Getting out of the car feels amazing, and Mickey groans at finally being able to stretch his legs after sitting for so long, hissing a little when his back pops a few times. “What?” He asks, when he notices Ian staring at him._ _

__“Nothing.” The redhead mumbles, but the heated look in his eyes says something else altogether. Mickey smirks, making sure to bend down more than strictly necessary when he goes to get their bags out of the trunk._ _

__He hears Ian sigh, and feels cocky about it for a second, until he feels large, familiar hands palming his ass. They’re gone fast enough that Mickey can’t find it in himself to protest, just whirls around until he’s facing Ian again, narrowing his gaze at the other boy’s raised eyebrows. “Keep it in your pants, Gallagher.”_ _

__Mickey knows he won’t, not for long, anyway. He’s counting on that._ _

__***_ _

__Mickey knows he should feel more tired than he does. In the past three days, he hasn’t slept more than a few hours here and there, but the adrenaline rush of finding Ian, and the contentment that’s settled in his gut now that they’re out of New York and well on their way home, is doing a good job of keeping him alert._ _

__And now there’s the anticipation, too._ _

__He’s keyed up, fucking _wired_ , on the knowledge that he and Ian are about to be alone together – in a room with walls and a lock on the door and a _bed_ – for the first time in over a year. He’s nervous, too. And sex isn’t something he’s ever felt that about, before. Then again, he doesn’t think he’s ever walked into a sexual encounter that’s going to mean as much as this one will. _ _

__Fuck, his skin feels like it’s vibrating. He’s scared. And excited. And so fucking horny that his dick twitches in his jeans when the lady behind the front desk hands him their room key, and is half-hard by the time they split up with Lip and Mandy, who have a room halfway down the hall from them, and enter their own._ _

__The space is simple, with its generic hotel furniture and tiny bathroom, but the bed is large and inviting. Mickey can feel his heartbeat in the tips of his fingers._ _

__Ian pauses next to him, surveying their surroundings with a similar scrutiny. “Better than the last one we stole.” He says lightly, and Mickey can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of his chest._ _

__The tension drains from his shoulders as he exhales, turning towards Ian with a cocky grin and quirked eyebrow. “You wanna take notes, or you wanna get on me?”_ _

__Ian smiles at the question, recognizing it easily as one of Mickey’s favorite lines from their early days of fucking. It means something entirely different now. Less of a distraction, more of a reminder – _can you believe how long we’ve been doing this, how far we’ve come?_ _ _

__They move towards each other in the same breath, meeting in the middle like someone had planned it out ahead of time – fate, maybe, or instinct. Mickey’s more inclined to believe in the latter, but after the day he’s had, he’s not about to discount the force of the universe, either._ _

__The kiss is slower than Mickey might have expected. It’s hard, demanding and deep, but not rushed. Mickey feels like they have all the time in the world – they do, in a way – and as much as he _wants_ , he also wants _more_. Everything. Every goddamn thing that Ian fucking Gallagher wants to give him. _ _

__He’s shaking by the time they pull apart, breathing ragged and harsh. Ian’s arms are wound around him, the way he loves to do, one hand hooked over his shoulder, the other at his hip. Mickey’s fingers are curled up in the taller boy’s hair, tugging and then petting, over and over again, following a melody that only they can hear._ _

__Ian hums happily as he rests their foreheads together, licking his lips and shutting his eyes briefly before opening them again, almost too wide, and pulling back just a little – like maybe he doesn’t want to let Mickey out of his sight. The older boy feels his heart contract painfully in response, and his breath hitches._ _

__Mickey’s hand grazes lightly down the sharp edge of Ian’s jaw. He lets his thumb ghost over the redhead’s bottom lip, then up again over his cheek, and against the cut on his eyebrow. His other hand stays curled around the side of Ian’s neck, and he smiles softly when the redhead nuzzles into his touch. Their hips are slotted together – a perfect fit, just like they’ve always been – and for as obvious as their mutual arousal is, Mickey doesn’t feel desperate the way he thinks he should._ _

__“Missed you,” he whispers. He knows he’s said it a lot since they found each other again, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of letting Ian know. There’s something liberating about it, too – that he’s free enough to share these parts of himself now. “Fuck, man, I can’t even…” he trails off, shaking his head and smiling._ _

__“Me, too, Mick.” Ian responds, just as softly even though they have no reason to be quiet. “I used to…I used to forget that you were gone sometimes, y’know?”_ _

__Mickey quirks his head to the side, curious._ _

__Ian bites his lip briefly, sliding one hand under Mickey’s shirt so he can rest it on his bare stomach, eyelids fluttering briefly at the skin-to-skin contact. “When my brain was all jacked up and I couldn’t…” he pauses for a beat, swallows thickly, “I’d hear you. I mean, I’d hear a lot of things, it was…there were hallucinations, y’know?” Mickey nods because he does know, because he’d _learned_. “But you were always the loudest. Like my brain couldn’t figure out, didn’t remember, that you weren’t there anymore.” _ _

__“I’m here now.” Mickey tells him. Ian smiles, but there’s something more than relief and happiness in his gaze. “Hey.” He says, squeezing Ian’s neck firmly until the younger boy looks him in the eyes. “You know I’m here now, right? I’m not going anywhere.”_ _

__“I know.” Ian says. “I just…it’s still hard, sometimes. It was always so real, y’know? More real than anything else, even though it wasn’t. I’m…I don’t want to be afraid that you’re going to disappear. But I…I don’t know…I don’t know if I can help it.”_ _

__Ian looks desperate and lost, and as much as Mickey doesn’t want to feel sad for him – knows it won’t help a goddamn thing and that Ian doesn’t want his pity, anyway – he honestly can’t help the way his whole body aches at the younger boy’s confession. If there had been any doubt in his mind that he loves Ian – which, honestly, there hasn’t been in a while now – it would have been obliterated right in this moment. Nothing but love could possibly explain why or how Mickey feels Ian’s pain so acutely, as if it were his own._ _

__Mickey’s next action is pure instinct; he reaches down and takes one of Ian’s larger hands in his own, moves it until the redhead’s palm is resting directly above Mickey’s heart. “Feel that?”_ _

__Ian’s gaze lingers for a long moment on his hand, but eventually he drags his eyes up, meets Mickey’s with his own, wide and questioning. Slowly, he nods. “You’re under my skin, Ian.” He repeats the words he’d said earlier in the car, the ones he’s been thinking since the first time he’d heard them, the ones he knows will be true for the rest of his life. “You’re _part_ of me, man. Just feel it. If you ever forget, you just gotta feel it, okay? I’m not going anywhere.” _ _

__Ian doesn’t respond, not with words, but his next kiss feels like a thank you. Ian leaves his hand where Mickey had put it, but uses the other to cup the back of his neck firmly. He pushes into Mickey’s mouth with a forceful edge, offering the older boy everything they both know he needs. And Mickey melts under the attention, keens loudly as his body reacts, remembers what the two of them can do together, all the things Ian makes him feel._ _

__The next moments pass in a blur of unbuckling belts and pushing underwear and pants out of the way, kicking and moving until they’ve backed themselves against the foot of the bed. Their hands are everywhere, touching everything, and Mickey finally breaks the kiss because it’s not enough, he needs more. He tugs his own t-shirt over his head in record time and then goes for Ian’s, desperate to see all of him, to feel the steady weight of Ian’s naked body pressing his own firmly against the mattress – taking, giving, connecting._ _

__He can’t believe he’s gone a whole year without this. He’s panting by the time he gets Ian fully stripped._ _

__Objectively, Mickey knows that Ian’s body will have changed in the time they’ve been apart. He’s a little taller than he had been before, and his shoulders have broadened just a hair, as if to keep up. And Mickey’s already felt that he’s thinner than he had been, maybe even than he should be. None of that surprises him, and while he probably should have guessed that there’d be more than that, he hadn’t, and the sight of Ian’s naked torso causes him to stop short._ _

__There are several things that his brain has a hard time processing all at once: the bruises, the tattoo, and the scar._ _

__Actually, it’s not that hard, and he decides pretty goddamn quick which one he needs to zero in on._ _

__“The fuck happened there?” He demands, not able to control the anger that snarls out with the question._ _

__Ian looks confused for a second, still caught up in the haze of sex, so Mickey pulls back slightly and runs his fingers over the angry, raised skin on Ian’s side, just below his ribcage._ _

__The bruises he can understand – _poker game_ , Ian had said before, and none of them look that serious – and the tattoo he’ll mock the shit out of him for later – because patriotism’s all well and good, but a Bald Eagle holding a machine gun in its talons, really? – but the scar he can’t ignore. Not when he knows damn well where it had come from. _ _

__“That what that asshole did to you?” He asks. He can hear his own fury, and the edge of hysteria he carries with it, and he hates himself when Ian cringes, but he can’t stop. “Fucking shot you?”_ _

__“Mickey…” Ian’s tone is pleading, but there’s not a trace of denial there._ _

__The older boy laughs bitterly. “He did, didn’t he? He fucking shot you.” He’s having a hard time breathing. “He shot you in Tennessee and you thought…you thought it’d be a good idea to move in with him after that? Move to a different fucking state with him? Alone? Fucking Christ, Ian, what the fuck? What the _fuck_ were you thinking?” _ _

__Ian pulls back and wraps his arms around himself defensively even as his expression morphs into something stony and cold. “Wasn’t thinking.” He mutters. “That’s what…that’s just what it was like, okay?”_ _

__“Fuck no, it’s not okay.” Mickey snaps. “How did you…why didn’t you…” he doesn’t even know what he’s trying to ask, what he wants the other boy to say._ _

__“It was an accident.” Ian says softly. He doesn’t try to reach out, looks nervous and, _fuck_ , scared. “We were high. I was manic. We were fucking around, just shooting guns in Randy’s backyard. Nate didn’t mean to hurt me, okay? It was an accident.” _ _

__Mickey can tell Ian’s not lying, and it calms him down a little, it does, but then he gets a good look at Ian, sees that fear he’s still wearing like he can’t help it, and his blood boils all over again. “And that was the only time? The only time he hurt you?”_ _

__Ian presses his lips together and looks away. “I can take care of myself.”_ _

__“Fuck.” Mickey hisses. He moves to take a step closer to him, but Ian flinches back. That reaction, the way he obviously hadn’t meant to do it but hadn’t been able to stop himself, it makes Mickey want to cry, to hit something, to hate himself in a way he hasn’t in years. “ _Fuck_.” _ _

__“I’m sorry.” Ian breathes, not looking at him. “It wasn’t…wasn’t like what you’re thinking, okay? It wasn’t that bad. We fought sometimes. I was manic and Nate’s an addict. It’s not a good combination. But I can take care of myself, Mickey. I did. It wasn’t…it wasn’t that bad. It could’ve been a lot worse.” He takes another breath, still won’t look at him. “I’m _sorry_.” _ _

__Mickey deflates. All at once, and so fast that he almost feels lightheaded from it. His anger fizzles out because there’s no one here for him to direct it at, besides Ian, and Ian doesn’t deserve it. But he thinks he does, thinks Mickey’s fury is all for him, and that’s _not okay_. _ _

__Mickey needs him to know that, right now, otherwise this might be something they’re never going to be able to get passed._ _

__“Hey,” he says, pitching his voice as soft as he can. He steps closer to Ian again, and the other boy doesn’t flinch this time, but he doesn’t release the tension he’s holding onto, either. Mickey doesn’t let that deter him, just gets close enough to touch. He goes slow, making sure that Ian can see every move he’s making. “I’m sorry, okay?” He rests his hands on Ian’s biceps, squeezing lightly. “It’s not your fault.”_ _

__Ian snorts. “I fucked everything up, I couldn’t –”_ _

__“Hey.” He interrupts lowly, moving one hand so it’s carding through Ian’s hair, soft and soothing like he knows the redhead’s always responded to. It’s never been in Mickey’s nature to comfort people, but he finds that with Ian, at least in this moment, the words and motions flow easily, like he was built for them. “Are you here? Here with me, right now?”_ _

__Ian looks at him curiously, but his expression isn’t that dead one from seconds before, so Mickey considers it an improvement. “Yeah.” He nods. “Yeah, I’m here.”_ _

__“You goin’ anywhere?”_ _

__Ian huffs lightly, a little breathless, but he seems to get it now. “No, Mick, I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”_ _

__Mickey nods once, firmly, and scratches his nails lightly over Ian’s skull. “This.”_ _

__Ian takes a deep breath. “Us.” He finishes, obviously remembering his own words from the day before, and how the two of them had turned them, so easily, into a shared promise._ _

__“Right here.” Mickey adds, because it’s too important to go unspoken._ _

__“Right here.” Ian echoes._ _

__Slowly, so slowly, the redhead uncrosses his arms, and reaches to touch Mickey again. His hands find the older boy’s waist, and tugs at him until they’re as close as they had been before._ _

__Then it’s all limbs and pressing together and want. Mickey realizes that nothing will ever be enough to come between the two of them – not even the two of them._ _

__“Missed the way you feel.” Ian tells him, voice soft but firm; and it’s like all the tension from before has simply trickled away. The redhead ducks down and buries his nose in the crevice of Mickey’s shoulder, inhaling deeply. Hands run up and down his back, Ian’s blunt nails biting dully as he curls his fingers into Mickey’s bare skin. “So perfect against me.”_ _

__Mickey feels his breath hitch, getting caught somewhere in the back of his throat as heat pools in his gut, pressing outwards until he’s flushed with it. “Yeah.” It’s an exhale more than a word. His head feels light. “Fuck, yeah.”_ _

__Mickey doesn’t keep track of what happens next, not in time. It’s kisses and heartbeats, sweat and pressing limbs, goosebumps and the scratchy fabric of an over-washed comforter until Ian is on top of him, finally and fully. Mickey spreads his legs and draws his knees up so Ian’s trapped there, his weight a familiar, comforting thing._ _

__“Want you,” he gasps. “Fuck, Ian, want you so bad.”_ _

__Ian just nods, flushed and panting, his eyes almost entirely black from arousal. “Shit,” he mutters, pulling back from the spot on Mickey’s collarbone where he’d been steadily sucking a bruise. “Gotta get –” he cuts himself off with a groan when Mickey’s hips thrust up, pressing the hard line of his leaking cock against Ian’s stomach, “gotta get the stuff.”_ _

__He’s only gone for a few seconds, probably not even half a minute, but Mickey feels cold in his absence, almost bereft. He shakes his head at himself, at all the emotions Ian fucking Gallagher makes him feel, good and bad, but that doesn’t stop him from sighing in relief as soon as Ian returns._ _

__The redhead leans back a little as he pops open the top on the fresh bottle of lube, which they’d grabbed on one of their gas station stops somewhere near the Pennsylvania border. Mickey sighs when he hears it, and can’t quite stop his legs from shaking. “Fuck.” He whispers, watching as Ian coats his fingers._ _

__He starts slow, just pressing against Mickey’s hole. “When’s the last time you let someone do this?” Ian asks, voice low and almost reverent as he watches Mickey clench down around nothing, his body already so desperate for it. “Was I the last person inside of you like this?” He presses the very tip of a finger in, and Mickey’s breath catches._ _

__“Yeah.” He exhales. “Yeah, of course you were.”_ _

__Ian groans. “Fuck, that’s hot, Mick.” He eases his whole finger into Mickey’s body, eyes fixed on where it disappears._ _

__They don’t talk about how many guys Ian’s fucked in the time they’d been apart. They already have, and don’t need to again right now. This is just about them._ _

__“More,” Mickey gasps, when Ian just teases him for a while, crooking the digit inside of him, brushing it lightly against his prostate. “Need more.”_ _

__“I know,” the redhead whispers, but when Mickey looks at him again, dragging his eyes away from where their bodies are connected, he sees something other than lust in his gaze._ _

__“Hey.” Mickey says, doing his best to keep his tone level, not pleading. Ian’s eyes snap up to him. “This.”_ _

__Ian lets out a deep breath that sounds a lot like relief. “Us.”_ _

__And then he pushes a second finger inside, using his free hand to trail up Mickey’s torso and to his chest, brushing his thumb firmly over one of the nipples there, and then pinching at it lightly. Mickey does his best to press up into him and down onto him at the same time. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as his own hands clench tightly at the bedding. “ _Ian_.” He gasps. _ _

__And maybe Ian had been waiting for it, for Mickey to show him that edge of desperation, because it’s in the next breath that he rubs firmly at Mickey’s prostate._ _

__In all the time Mickey’s spent jacking off over the past year, he can count on one hand the number of times he’s used his own fingers like this. It had always felt wrong, doing it to himself. He’d never been able to get the angle right, or the pressure, and had mostly wound up just teasing himself with whispers of _almost but not quite, not good enough_. And, more than that, it had felt _wrong_. Had left him with an empty sort of ache that, even now, he can’t put a name on. It hadn’t been guilt, exactly, but that’s the word that feels closest. _ _

__“Ian,” he punches out breathlessly, like the other boy’s name is the only thing in the whole world that matters. Hell, maybe it is. “Ian.”_ _

__The redhead doesn’t look smug or proud or anything like Mickey’s expecting. Instead, his face is slack with awe. “Never thought I’d be able to do this again.” He shares, before Mickey can ask. He quirks his fingers again and rubs, just a hair too light, that spot inside Mickey that’s making him see stars, rendering him unable to say anything back. “I wanted to. Every fucking time I…every time, every single time I thought about you. I wanted you. I used to dream about this. The way you get when we’re like this. The way you look at me. The way you make me feel. The way you trust me. Used to think, I’d do anything to have that again.”_ _

__“Got it.” Mickey gasps. “Fuck…” he trails off, detaches one of his hands from the comforter to get it on Ian, pulls hard at his shoulder until he’s over Mickey more firmly; his whole body, almost every ounce of him, covering him. “Kiss me.”_ _

__Ian doesn’t need the prompt, and within a beat their lips are moving against each other again. Mickey’s already feel swollen and raw, from the amount of kissing they’ve done today, but he doesn’t care. He figures he owes Ian a lot of them, anyway, from that time when he’d refused to give the redhead this piece of himself. And he’ll be perfectly content letting Ian collect on that for the rest of their lives._ _

__Ian pulls out of him briefly, making Mickey whine loudly and thrust up. “Shh,” he soothes, adding more lube to his fingers and then putting them back, three this time, and Mickey hisses at the added stretch, but just shakes his head when Ian shoots him a worried look._ _

__“I’m good.” He promises. He’d be good if Ian wanted to stick his dick in him right now, too little prep or not, but Mickey knows he won’t. It’s been a year, and Ian’s nothing if not careful. They both like rough, but neither of them ever want to hurt, not like that. And this, their first time after so long apart, it’s not going to be rough anyway. No, this is going to be something else entirely. Already is._ _

__Ian moves his fingers, scissors them to get Mickey ready. The hand that’s been playing with his nipples moves up higher until it’s in his hair, grabbing a fistful of it and tugging. Not too harsh, not like that, but with enough pressure that Mickey’s cock leaks from it. His heart flutters because Ian _remembers_ , has clearly held onto his memories of Mickey – what he likes, what he needs – and that makes him flush with something a lot deeper than arousal. _ _

__“Yeah, you’re good.” Ian agrees, tugging Mickey’s hair until he moves his head to the side, giving Ian room to kiss, lick, and then suck at the long expanse of his throat. “You’re so fucking good.” He breathes, and Mickey knows he means something else now, something that the brunette’s never been able to name but likes _so much_. _ _

__“Ian,” Mickey pants. “C’mon, man, need it. Need you. Want you inside me.”_ _

__Ian responding grin is all teeth and want. “Yeah?” Mickey nods quickly, almost too hard. “Can we do it like this?” He asks, pressing down firmly on his sweet spot. “Wanna see you lose it for me, Mick. Wanna see you come. God, it’s been so fucking long. Can’t wait to see you.”_ _

__“Yeah, yeah,” he agrees, barely registering Ian’s request as something that needs to be begged for. Of course they’re going to do it like this. Doesn’t matter that they never fucked face to face that often, or that Mickey mostly likes it better on his knees – if only for the leverage it allows Ian over him. None of that fucking matters, and only stays in Mickey’s thoughts for as long as it takes him to nod again._ _

__Ian fingers him for a few more minutes, and then he stops, goes still and sucks in a deep breath. “Gonna take ‘em out now,” he shares, and Mickey wants to roll his eyes at the play-by-play, but he doesn’t, because he _needs_ it. “You good?” _ _

__“Yeah.” He gasps, breath coming out fast. “Yeah just – hurry.”_ _

__And Ian does. He removes his fingers, leaning down to kiss him when Mickey whines despite himself, and then reaches over for the fresh box of condoms. Mickey has this fleeting thought that when they get back to Chicago, they should both get tested so they can go back to doing it bare. He loves the feel of Ian inside him, and kind of hates that the condoms are a sudden necessity. He doesn’t let his mind linger on that, though._ _

__Instead, he watches how Ian’s hands tremble as he rolls the rubber over himself, torn between a primal sort of pride that his partner wants him so bad that he’s shaking for it, and straight-up awe. Because Ian’s fucking _huge_. Of course, he’d already known that – has loved it since that first time in his bedroom, a crowbar discarded on the floor the only reminder of the path that had led them there – but seeing him like this again, hard and leaking, about to be inside of him, Mickey’s throat goes dry. _Fuck_ , he’s missed Ian. So fucking much. So _goddamn fucking much_. _ _

__Ian hooks one of Mickey’s legs around his waist, angling his hips up so there’s enough room._ _

__The first press inside hurts. He’s surprised by how much, and that tears well up in his eyes because of it. The sting feels good, reminds him that this is happening, that it’s real, but it’s also a lot._ _

__“Shh, shh,” Ian soothes, stopping about halfway inside of him, balancing his weight so he can run a hand up and down Mickey’s side, a solid pressure to help him focus. “You’re okay. You’re good. Take me so good, Mick, even after all this time. So fucking good. Like you were made for me.”_ _

__Mickey chokes out a laugh, watery at the edges. “Fucking sap.”_ _

__Ian chuckles, too, lightly. He moves again, barely anything, but goes still immediately when Mickey gasps. He doesn’t remember it being this much that first time. “Ian.” He keens, begging. _Make it better_. He meets the other boy’s eyes just long enough for him to see. _Make it better, please_. _ _

__Ian does._ _

__“Here.” He whispers, and then he gets a grip on Mickey’s wrists, both of them in one giant hand, and tugs until his arms are above his head. The immediate spike of lust he gets from that distracts him, and Ian moves again, pushes until he’s almost there, _right there_. He presses Mickey’s hands firmly above him, wrapping his fingers around the edge of the bedspread. “Keep them there.” He tells him, and it’s not a question, not even close. _ _

__Mickey groans at the demand, nodding easily. “Yeah, yeah.” He doesn’t even notice it when Ian stops moving, just blinks back to himself and finds that the redhead is fully inside of him now, and that he doesn’t feel anything except full and fucking perfect. His fingers flex above him, but he makes no effort to move himself out of the position Ian had put him in. “Fuck me.”_ _

__Ian smiles widely, obviously proud of himself – maybe proud of Mickey? The older boy’s heart clenches tight at the thought._ _

__He pulls out slowly, so fucking slowly, and then pushes in again at the same glacial pace. Mickey’s breath gets caught, but there’s absolutely no more pain. He turns his head and buries it in his bicep, feeling oddly safe in this position, or – maybe it’s something else, something more._ _

__He feels content. Not just because he’s got his arms over his head, but because Ian had _told_ him to put his arms there. And there’s something liberating about it, knowing that he’s doing exactly what Ian wants, that he’s making him happy. There are no questions or doubts. Mickey’s free to feel, just feel and not think, because Ian had taken the rest of it away. _ _

__“Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” Ian’s cooing at him, running one hand through Mickey’s hair and then down farther, tracing nails over his neck and chest. “Like feeling me like this?”_ _

__Mickey more than likes it, but he can’t quite bring himself to say those other things, not right now, at least. He settles for nodding, turning his head enough to meet Ian’s gaze. The emotion in the younger boy’s eyes is almost overwhelming, and when Mickey says, “yeah,” a second later, he’s not entirely sure what he’s responding to._ _

__Ian’s pace increases eventually, until he’s pounding into Mickey hard and fast, like he can’t control himself, and the brunette is right there, arching into his every thrust, balancing on the cusp of the edge, ready to topple over at the slightest provocation, but it seems like Ian can tell – of course he can, he always could – and he slows down right before Mickey can lose it._ _

__The older boy whimpers, almost lowers his arms to claw at Ian’s skin but stops himself just barely, and settles for panting and glaring. “What…”_ _

__“Wanna go a while longer.” Ian tells him, though it comes out more like a question. “Can you? Please? Can you let me fuck you for as long as I can?”_ _

__Mickey wants to groan and gripe, wants to point out that they can do this again, as many times as they want after this, but Ian looks wrecked. Mickey doesn’t think he’ll last long, one way or another, and can’t bring himself to take away whatever extended moment he’s trying to find. So he says, “Yeah, of course,” and that’s just it._ _

__Ian fucks him fast and hard, and then slow and deep, over and over again, with no real discernable pattern to it, beyond what he’s obviously reading in Mickey’s body. And the brunette takes it all. He whimpers and whines and grunts and pleads; he keeps his hands obediently above his head and fists the blanket so hard that his fingers go numb. His own dick is hard and leaking, completely neglected, against his stomach. It brushes, occasionally, against Ian as he thrusts, but it’s not nearly enough to get him off, and he lets the steady throb of it fade until it just becomes part of everything else._ _

__Mickey’s legs are shaking and every inch of his skin is covered in sweat. His ass clenches and pulls at Ian’s dick on every slide out, and his body sings when he’s stretched full by the other man. Every time. It’s an up and down of desperate need followed by utter satisfaction, and each time Mickey doesn’t think he can take anymore, Ian proves him wrong._ _

__It doesn’t take long for him to sink into a floaty kind of headspace where nothing else exists, his whole focus narrowing down to what Ian is making him feel; the steady thrum of pleasure, desperation, and safety. Mickey recognizes this feeling, used to get sucked in by it sometimes when he and Ian would fuck, and had missed it desperately in the year they’d been apart. He knows what it is – deep down, he’s always known that this feeling is part of who he is, what he needs – but he hadn’t truly realized how much he _craves_ it until now. _ _

__He’s a panting, sweating, sobbing mess eventually, with no idea how much time has passed, how long Ian’s kept him here like this. He thought he’d be able to wait the redhead out, to let him fuck his fill, but it’s so fucking much, too much, so much, “too much,” he gasps finally, out loud. He’s tossing his head back and forth, feels his hair sticking up in every direction. Ian stops moving. Mickey croaks out a groan; his voice is rough, wrecked, from the noises he’s been making._ _

__“Mick?” Ian prods, still and careful, when he doesn’t say anything else._ _

__“Gotta come,” he manages, looking up at Ian with whatever’s in his eyes right now, baring himself entirely. “Wanna come, gotta. Fucking please. Please, Ian, please, I gotta, you have to lemme, you –”_ _

__“Hey, hey, shh,” Ian interrupts him, pushing all the way in, nailing Mickey’s prostate again, and touching him everywhere, fingers dancing across his skin like fireworks. “I gotchya. I gotchya.”_ _

__He reaches down and takes Mickey’s cock in his hand then, and the older boy can’t control it when his back bows hard at the sensation. “Please.” He says again, voice breaking._ _

__“Taking it so good for me, Mick,” Ian says, stroking his cock slowly, but with more than enough pressure to get him there. He rocks his hips into Mickey, not sliding in and out like before, but moving just enough to keep the pressure steady against his sweet spot. “God, you’re so fucking good. Want you to come now, okay? Whenever you’re ready. Lemme see you come.”_ _

__It doesn’t take more than a handful of strokes for Mickey to get there. He doesn’t know if it’s the pressure on his dick or Ian telling him to, but his orgasm hits so fast, and so fucking hard, that Mickey loses himself in it. For a while – minutes, hours, years – he can’t even feel himself anymore. It’s like his body vanishes, is consumed as a whole by this wave of pulsating, indescribable mix of pleasure and relief. He feels so good, so fucking good that it’s like that’s all there is. He isn’t Mickey anymore. For a few seconds, maybe half an eternity or someone else’s life, all he is, is Ian’s and good._ _

__He floats in that sensation for a while, only absently noticing it when Ian’s thrusts become erratic, an edge to his movements that means he’s close. Mickey’s aware enough to clench down hard around the redhead, and smirk lightly, if not a little dazedly, when the action causes Ian to gasp loudly. He finally moves his arms from where they’ve stayed above his head, just to bring them down around Ian’s shoulders, pressing his hands into the other boy’s back, running soothing fingers over every bit of skin he can reach, finally resting one palm over that scar just below his ribcage, taking a lucid moment to focus on that, feel it, because as much as he hates how it had gotten there, that scar is a part of Ian now. Which means it’s part of Mickey, too._ _

__“C’mon, tough guy,” he encourages, barely recognizing his own voice for how fucked out and fond it sounds. “Let go.”_ _

__Ian’s face contorts, going from intense concentration to pure bliss right before Mickey’s eyes as the younger boy comes hard, pulsing deep inside of Mickey. He ducks down to bury his head in the brunette’s shoulder and Mickey can’t help it when he shushes the redhead gently, keeping a steady pressure against his skin until the last of Ian’s orgasm shudders through him._ _

__Mickey doesn’t even care that they’re both covered in come, or that Ian’s heavy on top of him. Ignores the way goosebumps raise on his skin in the air-conditioned room now that his sweat is drying. Could give a fuck that Ian’s still inside of him – likes that, actually, and would be content to stay that way for a lot longer if not for the condom. Nothing matters now, except that the two of them are together again._ _

__Together again for good, if Mickey has anything at all to say about it. And fuck anyone who thinks he won’t._ _

__

____

___________________________________________________

**Next Time:**

_“Oh, yeah, they’re back together now.” Lip chimes in, after Fiona glances between Mickey and Ian and then looks at Lip for an explanation. “Real fucking sappy shit, eternal love and all that. Hey. Speaking of. You got fucking married?”_

___________________________________________________


	13. Clinging to the Skin of the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for all the comments and kudos on this story. Knowing that other people are enjoying this divergent little journey I'm taking these characters on means the world to me <3

**\--XIII—**

_Clinging to the Skin of the World_

***  
***

Ian’s not sure how long they sleep. 

The sun is up and shinning bright, muted by the hotel room curtains but still managing to peek in through the cracks, reminding him that this isn’t normal, that they’ve disrupted the natural order of things. Ian doesn’t like sleeping when the sun is up, makes him feel like he’s cheating somehow, which is maybe why he wakes up so many times. 

He doesn’t try to move, though, not once, because for as much as the timing feels wrong, having Mickey in his arms feels so impossibly right. They’re spooned together, Ian pressed up behind the older boy with his arms around him, head buried in his neck, trying to escape the sunlight. He’s always loved this position, in part because of how much he knows Mickey loves it. 

Mickey Milkovich isn’t one to show affection or need easily, and as much as Ian seems to be an exception to his learned defenses, he knows it won’t always be like this. Mickey is rough around the edges, but also sharp. He hurts people without trying sometimes, and Ian accepts that about him – finds comfort in it even, occasionally. But these quiet moments when it’s just the two of them, these mean everything. So when the sun wakes him up, when his mind tries to drag him down with guilt and fear, all he does is wrap his arms tighter around Mickey, letting the other boy’s contented little hums, and the way he pushes himself subconsciously into the contact, soothe him. 

Mickey’s done so much already to take care of him, and Ian likes that there are ways he can return that, make things balanced between them. 

He lets himself drift in and out of sleep thinking about that, focusing on Mickey and how he feels instead of all the other thoughts threatening to overwhelm him. And he must nod off for real at some point, because eventually he comes to feeling more refreshed than he has a long time. 

He realizes that his mind hasn’t played any tricks on him while he’d been asleep, and while that isn’t something that happens all the time, he wouldn’t have been surprised if being in a strange place triggered it. 

Mickey’s awake now, too. Ian feels the way his body moves against his, trying to figure out where he is. He goes tense for a second, mind probably muddled from sleep, so Ian presses more firmly against him, kissing lightly at the back of his neck and tightening his grip around his waist until Mickey relaxes into him. 

“Morning,” the redhead whispers, nuzzling his nose against Mickey’s skin, taking a deep breath because he can, and wants to absorb as much of Mickey’s scent as possible. 

“Afternoon,” Mickey responds, voice cracking from disuse but still managing to sound slightly annoyed. He’s never been a morning person, and Ian’s kind of relieved that that hasn’t changed, that he still knows the other boy. 

They just lay together like that for a while, Mickey slowly drifting into wakefulness as Ian pets lightly at his skin, until finally the brunette rolls over and faces him. Ian’s arms stay around him, and they’re so close that their noses brush. 

“How you doin’?” Mickey asks. His own hands dance over Ian’s skin in turn, one of them settling on his gunshot scar. He’d touched it before, too, Ian remembers, while they’d been fucking. He hadn’t thought much of it then, but now he wonders why Mickey seems to be so fascinated by it – Ian had honestly expected him to ignore it, maybe even avoid touching it, and doesn’t know what to make of the unexpected actions. 

Ian hums at the other boy’s question, thinks about saying _fine_ , but has a feeling that Mickey wants him to be honest. So he shrugs. “I like being here with you.” He kisses Mickey’s face, right below his eye, grinning when the brunette blushes. “Kinda dreading leaving and going home, but not, too, y’know? Like, I know it’ll suck, but I also kinda just wanna get it over with.”

Mickey’s eyebrows draw up, and he uses his other hand to brush through Ian’s hair, from his temple to the base of his skull, like he always does when he’s trying to soothe, and Ian feels himself relaxing into it. “You don’t wanna go home? Or…”

Ian’s eyes snap open – he hadn’t even been aware that he’d shut them – at the apprehension in Mickey’s tone. “No.” He says immediately. “I mean, yes, I wanna go home. Just, seeing everyone is gonna be hard. Fiona especially. Just feel guilty about all of it, y’know?” 

Mickey’s face softens, his relief evident. “It probably won’t be as bad as you’re imagining.” He tries to comfort, but Ian just snorts. “Even if it is, they’re you’re family, man. They’ll get over it.”

He knows Mickey’s right. He can’t even count the number of times he and his siblings have let Monica back into their lives over the years. That’s honestly what’s killing him the most – the way they’re probably going to look at him just like they always looked at her. 

“Hey,” Mickey leans forward slightly and brushes their lips together, “don’t think about it yet, alright?” 

Ian nods, because obsessing about it won’t make the eventual outcome any different. “You gonna distract me?” He asks a few seconds later, pulling their bodies even closer together and feeling Mickey’s cock hard under the covers. He snakes a hand down between them to palm over it, grinning when the older boy gasps lightly. 

Mickey nods a few times and closes his eyes tightly. He pushes his forehead into Ian’s shoulder and grips his hip hard. The redhead feels proud at making him react like that, and a little in awe, too, at how vulnerable Mickey allows himself to be in moments like this. His heart constricts almost painfully in his chest and he wastes no time at all wrapping his fist around Mickey, suddenly desperate to bring the other boy pleasure. 

The handjob is quick – Mickey on the cusp of waking up doesn’t need much in order to find his release – and Ian spends the whole time kissing and tonguing at the brunette’s throat, adding more marks to the ones he’d made last night (or this morning, he supposes, since Mickey’s right and it’s technically the middle of the afternoon now), and he knows at least some of them will be visible over his clothes later, and it lights a fire in Ian’s belly, thinking about that. Let everyone know that they’re together again, that Mickey is his. 

The possessive train of thought kicks his motions into overdrive, and his hand moves rough and fast over Mickey’s dick, palming at the head every few strokes, and stopping to thumb at the slit the way he knows the other boy loves. It’s not surprising when Mickey comes quickly, muffling his groan in Ian’s shoulder as he spills all over both of them. 

Ian feels almost as satisfied as if he’d come himself. His own cock is hard, but the pulsing desire feels muted as he strokes Mickey through the aftershocks and coos in his ear, “So good,” he whispers, dropping a few chaste kisses along his forehead, not even minding the beads of sweat that get caught on his lips, “love seeing you come, love that you lemme take care of you.” 

Mickey’s still panting slightly, probably not even hearing his words, but he squeezes Ian’s hip firmly and the redhead takes it as a thank you all the same. These are the things that they never talked about before – the things Mickey likes and needs during and after sex. Ian had always been afraid to have that conversation, scared that Mickey would run away from him if Ian called him out on the way he is. 

But, Mickey won’t run away now. Ian doesn’t think there’s anything he could do that would make Mickey leave him anymore – waiting for him during a year of being apart and then finding him in New York had proven that in spades. 

“Ian.” Mickey whispers his name like he needs something, and the redhead smiles. He loves Mickey like this. 

“So good for me.” He says again, because he can read this man better than anyone. Mickey nods a little, just barely, against his shoulder, and then turns his head to kiss Ian’s bicep. Maybe they’ve never actually talked about it, but this is pretty damn close. “Good boy.” 

He’s wanted to say that for so long, been sure that Mickey would love hearing it, but was always too afraid. It’s different now, though; everything between them had changed the second Mickey had found him again, and those words don’t feel anything like the gamble he’d always thought they’d be. 

And Mickey loves them. Just as much, maybe even more, than Ian always thought he would. He full-body shudders the second they come out of Ian’s mouth and makes this sound like a broken whimper, from deep in the back of his throat. Ian’s chest feels tight, and for a second he actually _is_ scared – because this is such a huge thing that Mickey’s trusting him with and Ian’s broken now; what happens if he can’t handle it? If he screws up again? 

Then Mickey tightens his grip on Ian, arching up to press kisses along his neck like Ian had just given him the best sort of gift, and the redhead can’t help it when he relaxes. The fear fades, and it’s Mickey that makes that happen. “Good boy,” he whispers again, because now that the words are out there and he knows what they can do, he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to stop, “you’re so perfect for me, so good. Taking care of me. Such a good boy.” Ian shivers when Mickey keens softly against his skin, his heart pounding. “God, you have no idea what this does for me, Mick, doing this for you. Makes me feel whole again, y’know that? Could do this forever and never get tired of it.” 

Mickey shudders against him again. “Ian.” He pulls his head back just enough so that their eyes meet, and the redhead’s breath gets caught by the expression swimming in that crystalline blue. He knows what the other boy is going to say moments before he does. Like magic. “I love you.” He draws in a shaky breath. “You gotta know that. I…I fucking love you, Ian. So… _fuck_. So fucking much.” 

Ian nods. Over and over again he nods. He hadn’t needed to hear the words, but he’s glad he had, because they’re beautiful. “Love you, too.” 

Mickey looks relieved, like he hadn’t been sure he’d get that from Ian. It makes the redhead sad, and he kisses Mickey hard to try to ease the doubt and fear and pain away. “I love you.” He places his hand on the side of Mickey’s face to keep him still. “You’re so fucking perfect, and good, and stubborn, and loyal, and beautiful, and you _found me_. I’m so in love with you that it scares me. Absolutely terrifies the shit out of me because the thought of ever losing you again…”

“Hey, stop, don’t do that.” Mickey chides, leaning into Ian’s hand and using one of his own to trace across Ian’s scar. “You got me, man. This, remember? Us.”

Ian takes a deep breath and nods. Because he believes Mickey and trusts him so much, more than anyone. 

They kiss for a long time after that. Mickey gets Ian off with an almost painfully drawn out blowjob, and then they kiss some more, for what feels like hours, until they’re both hard again, and then Mickey rides him with a fierce determination that makes them both come fast. They touch and lick, tickle and bite and laugh, and just fucking play, for as long as they can, before exhaustion claims them all over again and they drift off, still in each other’s arms. 

This time, the sun doesn’t bother Ian at all. 

***

_Ian’s never been to the beach, but as soon as he opens his eyes he knows that’s where he is._

_The sand is white and the air tastes like salt. The sun is so bright that Ian can hear it like a low whine in the background and has to hold his hand up over his head just to shield his eyes enough to see Mickey._

_The other man is lying on the shore, some distance away from him that Ian’s brain can’t judge correctly because it changes with every blink. He starts walking in that direction anyway._

_He can’t feel the sand under his feet, but he knows he’s not wearing shoes. He can see his body when he looks down but he doesn’t feel connected to it. Everything’s moving, swaying back and forth like he’s already in the ocean that he can tell Mickey is right next to. But Ian’s skin is dry, almost sizzling in the heat, and he’s so thirsty. There’s no water around him._

_He knows he’s been here before._

_All he has to do is get to Mickey._

_As soon as he does, the sun won’t be as bright, a breeze will blow through, and Mickey will smile at him._

_Everything will be okay, as long as Mickey smiles at him._

_But Ian keeps walking and Mickey doesn’t get any closer. Neither does the water._

_He tries to run but it’s like he’s sinking into the sand, too much resistance against his legs. He can feel it, even though, when he looks down, it’s not really there._

_He tries to call out but all he can hear are the waves and the sun. He keeps trying to run, even though he’s pretty sure the effort is going to kill him._

_The waves get farther away but the sun gets closer, like the whole planet is hurtling towards it. The sun gets louder, reaches a higher pitch that makes his eardrums vibrate, maybe even bleed. There’s something dripping, anyway, on his face, but he doesn’t have enough energy to raise his hand and check if it’s sweat, blood, or tears. Maybe it’s all three._

_Mickey’s farther away, a spec in the distance now, and Ian can feel his heart pounding against his ribs so hard that he’s pretty sure he’d be able to see the outline of it under his skin if he looked down. Only he can’t look down anymore, because he has to keep moving._

_If he doesn’t run fast enough, they’re going to catch him. If he can’t get to Mickey, there won’t be any reason to stop them. He can’t remember what he’d done wrong, but he knows they want him for it. Want to take him away from Mickey and his family and freedom just to punish him, so he’ll never be able to do it again._

_The invisible sand gets thicker, and Ian can barely force his body through it anymore._

_He sobs at how painful the sound of the sun has become._

_He wants to give up. Just lie down and let the heat strangle him to death._

_But there’s still water in the distance, and even though he can’t see him anymore, Ian knows Mickey will be there when he finds it. Except he won’t find it, won’t ever see it again._

_He already knows he’ll get caught first._

_He knows it ends here for him._

_He just can’t stop running until it’s over, even if it’s not really running anymore._

_He’s terrified of what will happen once they catch up to him, find out who he is and what he’s done._

_Not even Mickey will be able to protect him from that._

***  
***

They’d talked about it for hours at that park in the middle of New York, but when the time comes for Mickey to deal with the effects of Ian’s disease, up close and personal, he still manages to fuck it up. 

They’re about three hours away from Chicago when it happens. Ian’s been sleeping against him in the backseat for the better part of an hour, and while Mickey had noticed at one point the other boy’s face crinkling slightly at whatever was happening in his subconscious, he’d just brushed his hand through Ian’s hair, whispered something in his ear, and been content when his expression had evened out. 

Little had he known. 

Nothing happens until Lip pulls into a gas station in the middle of nowhere so Mandy can go take a piss _“in a bathroom like a civilized human being, jesus assholes, not everyone has a dick, okay?”_ and Lip follows her into the hodunk little building for _“something with sugar, maybe some kind of meat on a stick. You want anything?”_ And Mickey decides to stay in the car and let Ian keep sleeping because _“I ain’t eatin’ anything outta this place, man; frying roadkill over a meth lab fire‘d be safer.”_

They’re not gone from the car for a full minute before Ian jolts awake. 

Right away, Mickey knows something is different, and in a very wrong kind of way. 

Earlier, when they’d first gotten to Cleveland, Ian had woken up with darting eyes and stiff limbs, and it had taken his heart a few minutes to stop beating dangerously fast, for his voice to sound right again, but it hadn’t been big. Ian’s stress had been contained, almost fleeting. 

_This_ isn’t contained. 

This reminds Mickey of one night, years ago, when Ian had called him, high as a goddamned kite, and asked him to come to one of their abandoned buildings at fuck-all-o’clock in the morning. And Mickey had gone, because the kid had sounded so fucking lit that the older boy had just known that he’d wind up falling out a fucking window or something without proper supervision. 

Ian actually had fallen out a window that night – only a first floor one, though, and he’d laughed about it for like an hour afterwards – proving, once again, that Mickey Milkovich isn’t qualified to supervise a goddamn thing. But it had actually been a pretty fun night, all said and done, because Ian’s a trip when he’s stoned and Mickey had gotten a kick out of seeing him like that while sober himself. 

Then the sun had started rising, and Ian had finally calmed enough to lay down on the mattress they’d kept on the very top floor with all the busted-out windows. Ian had fallen asleep, and Mickey had been just about to doze off next to him when the night terror had happened. 

It’s not something Mickey had ever seen before, or anything he’d ever wanted to see again. It had fucking terrified him, to the core and then some, and even though Mickey had stayed with Ian through the whole thing, he _really_ hadn’t wanted to, and had taken off as soon as he’d been sure that the gangly redhead was alright. He hates himself for it in retrospect, but the teenage version of himself hadn’t been nearly as brave as he thought he was, and that shit had been fucking _scary_. 

Later, Ian had blamed the whole thing on the weed he’d gotten from one of his ROTC buddies being bad, or laced with something. Mickey had tracked down the fucker Ian had smoked with and kicked his ass ten ways to fuck you, that’s when – but that’s a whole different story. 

Right now, all Mickey can do is watch Ian scramble out of the car – bashing his head on the side of the door as he goes, – and run, heaving every breath, towards the main road across from the small stretch of grass Lip had parked in front of. All he can do is nearly fall on his ass trying to get out of the car to follow him. All he can do is shout Ian’s name and hope to whoever the fuck might be listening that this isn’t how he loses everything. 

He’s terrified again, just like he had been that night when they were kids, but he knows he won’t run away this time. 

He’s stronger now, than he had been back then, and Ian had been the one to make him that way. 

He’s done with running. 

***  
***

Ian’s knees hit the ground hard, and the pain helps him focus. 

The ground isn’t soft. It’s dirt and grass under him, Ian can feel it, smell it, but nothing is soft. Nothing feels like sand. 

He closes his eyes and tries to focus on the small things. The sun isn’t loud, isn’t even shinning – hiding behind clouds swelled with rain yet to fall. The air smells thick with it, the oncoming storm, and there’s no salt at all. 

Ian’s always loved summer rain. 

“…fuck Ian, just look at me, man, _please_.” Mickey’s words cut across the rapid pounding in his chest, and he hears everything the other boy’s been saying for however long now, like a playback in his brain. He sees it like a movie he hadn’t been a part of – Mickey chasing him out of the car, calling his name, dropping down beside him, grabbing his shoulder – 

Ian jerks then, has to get away from the touch. It takes Mickey a second, but he gets it quick enough, and obediently moves his hand. 

“Okay, man, alright,” he soothes, voice too rough around the edges, making Ian feel guilty and oh so very afraid, because what if this is why they’re coming for him? “I won’t touch you. Just don’t…don’t run away again, okay?” 

Ian shakes his head, but he doesn’t know if he’s agreeing or getting ready to fight. God, he wants to be so far away. He wants to be in a hut in the desert, surrounded by nothing but heat and a ground made of clay. He wants to be in space, where nothing but silence can touch him. He just wants a single fucking second of _peace_. 

He wants to be alone. Not for long, certainly not forever, he just _needs_ a few minutes where nothing else matters. If he could exist outside of himself, or freeze time, he thinks that would be the best thing. The world can keep going, he knows he’s not important enough to alter the universe, he just wants a stop-time for himself. Just for a second. 

“…probably gonna get gonorrhea from the toilet seat, but they won’t be in there much longer. Lip might be able to help, okay? Just gotta wait…”

Ian’s mind drifts. Just like the waves in the ocean he never managed to reach. 

“…I know you used to do those stupid math riddle things, and it’s kinda like that, I guess, but it’s all just hypothetical bullshit if you ask…”

Maybe they won’t be able to find him here, sitting in the grass. Maybe if he stays low enough, close to the ground, it’ll be like camouflage. 

“Hey, ya gotta listen to me now, okay?” Mickey’s voice is firm and familiar. Ian’s brain pays attention out of instinct. “Do you have pills that are supposed to help with this shit? Something in the trunk I can get?” 

Ian can’t believe his heart is still beating as fast as it is. It’s starting to hurt. 

He manages to nod anyway. “Yeah.” He croaks, cringing at how rough and breathy the word comes out. “There’s…there’s some…”

“I’m gonna go get them, okay?” 

“Okay.” Ian agrees. He doesn’t feel any better, but he knows the anti-anxiety pills will help. It hasn’t been this bad in a while – maybe not since the aliens that one time in Nate’s stupidly lit apartment – but Ian knows it’ll pass. It always passes. It’s something he knows, just can’t feel right now. 

He’s selfishly relieved when Mickey walks away from him, and has this fleeting desire to run. While Mickey’s at the car, now that he’s alone, he could just start running and never stop. He’d be able to here, now that his legs aren’t in the sand. His hand twitches against the grass, the muscles in his thighs bunch up, preparing for it. He’s going to run. He’s got to. Leave it all behind, be alone. 

Alone. Alone. Alone alone alone. 

That’s all he fucking wants. What he’s craving. If he could just – he’s about to – 

“Here.” Mickey’s beside him again, and Ian’s body uncoils. Then there are pills in his hand, and a water bottle. Ian looks down at the white tablets on his palm, and shakily puts one on his tongue, passing the other back to the dark-haired boy as he drinks the water. Shit. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he actually was. Most of the bottle is gone before he can meet Mickey’s eyes. 

He doesn’t actually feel better yet, pills don’t work that fast, but it’s something like muscle memory, only with his emotions. Nate used to do the same thing with the Percocet, act and feel high before it was physically possible for the pills to have taken hold. Ian feels calmer just knowing he’s about to be calmer. 

Mickey’s making this face like he’s confused, but he drops the second pill back into the bottle and then pockets them. They’re still not touching. 

Ian tilts his head back and tries to remember what’s real and what’s imaginary. “I love the smell of rain.” 

“I know.” He thinks he can hear the small smile in Mickey’s voice – it’s right there next to the fear and determination. “Me, too. Remember that night in your pool?”

Ian nods. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget that night. It had been a painfully humid day in late August. Mickey and Ian had spent most of that summer together, and that day had been no exception. And then that night, somehow or another, the two of them had wound up at the Gallagher’s, shirtless in the pool around two in the morning, when the sky had opened up. Neither of them had made a single move to get away from it. 

Mickey had been beautiful that night – both of them had been. 

Ian kind of wants to cry, because he doesn’t think anything will ever be that beautiful again. 

“So, this is what you were talking about, huh?” Mickey’s voice comes out just shy of casual. Like, _this is it, this is our new reality_ , and Ian hates himself. 

“You can still back out if you –”

“Shut the fuck up.” Mickey cuts him off, and Ian feels the vice grip on his heart loosen a degree. 

It’s only another minute before Mandy and Lip find them like that – sitting in the grass almost at the side of the road, twenty feet away from the gas station parking lot – but as soon as they do everything changes. 

Mandy sits down right in front of him and makes him breathe in that stupid rhythm the doctor at the free clinic had taught them, and Lip hovers behind him, asking Mickey questions about the pill Ian had taken, forcing the other boy to hand the bottle over so he can examine the label himself. 

“You’re supposed to take two.” Lip says, narrowing his gaze at the tiny print on the side of the bottle. “You only gave him one?” Only that’s to Mickey, and it sounds too judgmental for Ian’s comfort. 

“I gave him two, he took one.” Mickey snaps. “You ain’t his fucking doctor, man, chill.” 

“And you are?” Lip asks incredulously. 

“Guys.” Mandy snaps. “Shut up.” 

Ian feels a little better now, at least like he can breathe. He’s still scared, and if he closes his eyes for too long or doesn’t have anything else to focus on, his mind goes back to that beach. The fear that someone is chasing him is still very real – muted and dulled, but real. He knows it’ll pass. It always passes. That’s what the meds do, he’s realized – protect his brain just enough so that he can _know_ that, even when he can’t feel it. 

“I only need one.” Ian tells Lip, glancing up at him for a second, and then away again, over Mandy’s shoulder and back at the road in front of them. A little part of him still wants to run. 

“The bottle says –”

“I know what the fucking bottle says,” Ian snaps, anger he hadn’t known he had striking at the drop of a hat, “but I fucking take them, I’ve been taking them, and I know how many I need and when I need them, and _you_ need to back the fuck off or I’m gonna hitchhike the rest of the way to Chicago and y’all can just fucking deal with that, got it?” 

“You’re not hitchhiking home.” Is Lip’s immediate counter. 

“Fucking watch me.” Ian seethes, feeling himself getting worked up again. 

“Hey, it’s okay.” Mandy says, trying to redirect Ian’s attention. “No one’s going anywhere, okay? We’re just gonna sit here together, all four of us, and calm the fuck down.” She takes a few more of those stupidly controlled breaths, until Ian mimics her without meaning to. “Lip, put the fucking pills away, if he says he’s good then he’s good.” 

“But –”

“Shut the fuck up, asswipe.” Mickey snaps. 

“And you,” Mandy turns towards her brother. 

“Me?” Mickey exclaims. “What the fuck did I do? I’m on your side.” 

“Stop looking at him like someone just shot his fucking dog.” She snaps. “This happens sometimes, and playing with kid gloves doesn’t fucking help.”

“I –”

“Ian.” She whips around again, fiercely determined to make everything better. He’s seen this side of her enough times by now that he knows there’s absolutely no arguing with it. “Whatever you’re feeling, it’s not real. No one’s coming after you, no one’s mad at you. Everything’s fucking fine, okay? You’re totally, completely safe.” 

Ian takes another one of those doctor-prescribed deep breaths and repeats Mandy’s words back to himself, over and over until it almost doesn’t feel like a lie when he says, “I know.” 

“I know you know.” She says steadily. Mandy, almost from the very beginning, has had a very distinctive way of dealing with Ian’s episodes, and while it doesn’t always help, sometimes it’s the only thing that does. “I’m gonna say it again, anyway. No one’s coming after you.” 

Ian closes his eyes and exhales shakily. “You sure?” 

He doesn’t flinch away when she grips his shoulders tightly, her thin fingers digging deeply into muscle and bone. “I’m so fucking sure, Ian, you have no idea.” Her voice stays firm and solid, and Ian feels himself relaxing more and more. “I promise, okay? I promise.” 

Mandy doesn’t make promises she can’t keep, so Ian knows she must be telling the truth. It helps a lot, and eventually, after several more drawn out minutes, and right after the first wave of thunder cracks above them, Ian feels strong enough to stand up and walk back to the car. 

Lip hands Ian’s pills back to Mickey, causing the darker-haired boy to raise his eyebrows in an open display of confusion and shock. His brother just shrugs. “They aren’t mine.” 

Ian wants to point out that they’re not Mickey’s, either, thank you very much, and he’s perfectly capable of managing his own pills. But he doesn’t say anything, just gets back in the car, next to Mickey where he had been before, and stares out the window as Lip guides them back onto the highway right as the rain starts falling. 

After a while, Ian glances over because he can feel Mickey staring at him. The older boy doesn’t look away when he’s found out, just softens his expression and smiles, and even though Ian can read the distress and jealousy underneath the casual façade, it makes him feel a little better. 

He reaches over and grabs the other boy’s hand, threading their fingers together. Mickey quirks an eyebrow like he’s surprised, but does nothing except squeeze Ian’s hand tight. 

***  
***

It’s dark by the time they pull up in front of the Gallagher house. 

After Ian’s breakdown at the gas station, they’ve all been pretty quiet, which had felt right at the time, almost peaceful, but now that they’re here, home, Mickey realizes they haven’t made any decisions about what’s going to happen next. 

“Uh, so,” Lip starts once he shuts the car off, turning in his seat to look at his brother, “I didn’t tell Fiona or the kids that we were going to New York.” 

Ian’s eyes widen right along with Mickey’s. “You didn’t?” The redhead asks, blinking owlishly. 

“I didn’t wanna get their hopes up.” Lip explains, voice taking on an edge that Mickey doesn’t like much. “It woulda been too much if we hadn’t…I just couldn’t, man.” 

Ian exhales, and doesn’t look anywhere near as pissed as Mickey feels. “Yeah, I get that.” 

“You do?” Mickey scoffs. “I don’t.” Mandy turns to glare at him. “What?” He snaps. “Could’ve at least called on our way back.” 

“Yeah, I probably should’ve.” Lip admits, stunning all of them. “But I didn’t, so here we are.” 

“Here we are.” Ian repeats, sounding resigned. “Guess there’s nothing to do now but face it, huh?” 

“Could come back to my place.” Mickey suggests, shrugging when all three of them look at him. “What?” He challenges. “Get some sleep, let fuck-face break the news, then they can all –”

“What, prepare to deal with it?” Ian interrupts, sounding frustrated. “Nah, man, I did this.”

“The crazy shit in your head did this.” Mandy counters firmly. “It’s different.” 

“Not to them.” Ian says. 

“Hey.” Lip speaks up, sounding sincerely offended. 

“Okay, to you and Fiona, maybe it’s different,” Ian relents, “but not to Debbie and Carl and Liam. They’re too young to…they don’t understand it. You know that, Lip. How long did it take us to get it, with Monica?”

“You’re not Monica.” Lip says the words, but only because he gets them out faster than Mickey or Mandy can. 

“I did a bunch of crazy shit and then took off without a word, didn’t write or call, nothing.” Ian says, but he sounds factual more than self-loathing. “To them, it’s just like Monica.” 

“Well, let’s go show them it’s not, then.” Mickey decides, after a few beats of uncomfortable silence pass, where none of them can figure out a way to argue with Ian. 

“What?” 

“Let’s just go inside.” Mickey shrugs like it’s easy. He knows it’s not, but at the same time it actually kind of _is_. Ian goes home and stays. It’ll take a while, and it might hurt, but it’s not _hard_. “Show them you’re back. Hug it out, whatever it is you fuckers do, then we go from there.” 

Danny used to always say, _“One day at a time.”_ like a shrink mantra that had eventually gotten stuck in Mickey’s head, but he supposes the tattooed hipster hadn’t been wrong – what other way is there to do anything, after all? 

Mickey really shouldn’t be surprised that the drama starts before they’re even inside the house, but it’s the fucking Gallaghers, so of course it does. 

“Jimmy?” Ian’s actually the first one to see him, and his shock is mirrored in both Lip and Mandy, letting Mickey know that no, this isn’t something he and Ian have missed while they were away – this asshole being back is a brand new fucking thing. 

“Hey, guys,” the two-name having, disappearing asshole calls out cheerily as he walks closer to them, “How have you been? It’s Mickey, right?” He points at the boy in question, who just raises his eyebrows. “Ian, Fiona said you were missing.” 

“I…was?” Ian replies, sounding appropriately thrown. 

“Glad you’re back.” He says with a wide grin. “Yeah, no, that’s great. Fiona’s probably thrilled. Does she know yet?” 

“No, I, we just got home.” Ian stammers. 

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Jimmy asks, bounding up the Gallagher’s front steps and walking through the door like he owns the place. 

“What the fuck?” Ian asks, mostly just out loud to himself. 

Lip shakes his head. “I don’t fucking know, man.” 

They don’t have any other options now, so the four of them follow Jimmy into the house. 

The first thing they hear is Fiona asking Jimmy, “What the fuck are you doing here?” in that voice all of them have been trained to cringe away from, because holy shit is she _pissed_. 

“I told you, I came back.” Jimmy’s saying. 

Carl exclaims, “Wait, you knew he was here?” 

“Yeah, she beat me up at the diner.” Jimmy explains, sounding rather upbeat about it. 

Ian, Lip, Mandy, and Mickey are still hovering just inside the doorway, listening but unseen for now. 

“And now you can leave again.” Fiona spits. “That’s what you fucking do best, isn’t it?” 

Ian cringes, Mickey sees it out of the corner of his eye, and grabs the redhead’s forearm and squeezes. He shakes his head when Ian looks over. _Not you_ , he tries to say without words. Ian half-smiles, like he knows what Mickey’s saying but just doesn’t quite believe it.

“Is this about me, or is this about your new husband?” 

That, apparently, is as much as Lip can take before speaking up. “Wait, you’re _married_?” 

Every set of eyes in the room – Fiona, Jimmy, Debbie, Carl, even Liam – turns towards them, finally. 

Fiona’s face goes slack with shock when she sees them, all of them. “Ian?” 

Mickey squeezes his arm tighter. 

“Yeah.” The redhead smiles a little, almost like he can’t control it. 

“You’re back? Is this for real?” She’s lunging towards him now, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing bodily into him. 

Mickey has to let go then, and he doesn’t like it, tenses up at the way she’s all over him, worries that it’s gonna trigger something, that it’s going to be bad again. But Ian just leans into it, breathing deep and relaxing, like he’s relieved. 

Mickey’s happy that it’s going like this, that Fiona is hugging him and Ian feels safe because of it; he’s as relieved as Ian looks, and it only stings a little bit, that Ian’s family is capable of being there for him in the same way Mickey wants to be. He knows that it’s important, that the two of them would never survive on their own, without other people around for support, but now that they’re back, Mickey feels like he’s losing Ian all over again. 

“Where have you been?” She asks when she finally pulls away. She’s still holding onto Ian’s shoulders, looking over every single inch of his face like she’s searching for signs of pain. Mickey wonders how she’ll react to Ian’s scar when she sees it. “What happened to Monica? Are you okay? Have you seen a doctor?” 

“Whoa,” Mickey steps in even though Ian doesn’t need him to. “Relax, Mother Hen, he’s fine.” 

Fiona glances at him, too quick for him to read her expression, and then back at her brother. “You’re fine? Tell me he’s right and you’re fine.”

Ian bites his lip and tilts his head a little, like a shrug. “I’m better.” 

“You’re taking meds now? Is that why you came back?” She asks, so desperate to know everything immediately. Mickey knows that’s her thing, how she deals with the stress of raising her siblings and all the other shit that happens in their lives; she always has to know what’s going on, at least everything important. 

“Meds?” Jimmy asks someone else, sounding confused. “Is Ian sick?” 

“No, he’s crazy like our mom.” Carl answers factually.

“It’s not crazy, it’s bipolar.” Debbie counters before any of the adults get a chance, pushing her little brother’s shoulder hard. “He only acts crazy when he doesn’t take his meds. But he’s going to take them now, right?” She’s looking at Ian now, too. “You wouldn’t’ve come back if you weren’t taking them.” She pauses, goes from looking confident to nervous in the blink of an eye. “Right?” 

“I came back because Mickey,” Ian glances over, smiles all dopily at him, and then grins wider still when Mickey returns it, “and Lip, and Mandy found me.” He turns back to his sisters. “But, yeah, yes,” he nods seriously, “I’m taking meds now. Again.”

“And you’re going to keep at it this time?” Fiona pushes. “No more running off with Monica after getting arrested by the military?” 

“Wow, ya miss a lot, huh?” Jimmy comments. No one responds. 

“No more running off with Monica.” Ian agrees dutifully. “I’ll have to go to the clinic here, get a doctor and new prescriptions eventually, but…” 

“We can do that next week.” Mickey adds. 

“Oh, yeah, they’re back together now.” Lip chimes in, after Fiona glances between Mickey and Ian and then looks at Lip for an explanation. “Real fucking sappy shit, eternal love and all that. Hey. Speaking of. You got fucking _married_?” 

Fiona cringes. “I was going to tell you.”

“When?” Lip demands. The question comes in stereo from Debbie and Carl, too. 

“It’s only been a few days.” Fiona explains, sounding a little strained. She’s still holding onto Ian’s shoulders, though, and mostly she just looks happy. 

“To who?” Lip asks. 

“Yeah?” Jimmy pipes up. “Who is the new mystery beau?”

“His name’s Gus.”

“The musician?” Carl questions, looking like he can’t wrap his head around it, and Mickey snorts. The last thing the Gallaghers need is a fucking musician in their lives. 

“What’s that smell?” Mandy asks, interrupting the bickering briefly. It’s the first time she’s said anything since they walked in, and Mickey can’t help it when he glances over at his sister. Her face is scrunched up in distaste – and, now that it’s been pointed out, Mickey has to admit that yeah, something reeks – but other than that she looks rather unstressed. 

Fiona points to the couch, where a passed out, beaten up, filthy Frank is lying with earmuffs on, completely oblivious to everything going on around him. Pathetic bastard. 

Jimmy’s expression is almost fond for a second when he sees him lying there, like he’s missed this – the mayhem of the Gallagher house. Hell, maybe he has. Mickey had never taken the time to really get to know the guy, but Ian always said that when he’d been living here, Jimmy had been kind of like a father figure to them. Not so much Lip and Ian, who had been too old to want or accept a male figure in their lives like that, but to the younger kids – Liam especially. He remembers that Jimmy had paid for Carl’s braces, and recalls coming over once to Jimmy and Debbie baking cookies. 

Mickey likes the younger Gallaghers, respects Fiona, and begrudgingly tolerates Lip when he doesn’t have a choice, but mostly he’s only ever cared about Ian. For Jimmy, it had been different – the guy is older than him, and way less fucked up, grand theft auto tendencies and all, and he’d been a part of their family. Mickey just wants to take Ian away and start their own. 

His breath kind of gets caught, once he processes that thought. 

_Start their own_. 

Shit. 

Holy shit. 

He’d already known how much he cares about Ian, that he wants to be with him, but thinking about it in those terms, it’s like a punch in the gut. 

He wants to be with Ian _forever_. 

Holy fucking shit. 

“You okay?” Mandy asks then, quietly so no one else can hear, because she must sense that something had just happened. 

Mickey snaps out of it. “Fine.” He says, not realizing that his calmness is telling to someone who knows him as well as she does. 

“Gus is an incredible musician, I met him at work, and he’s a great guy.” Fiona is still holding Ian, but pointedly directs that last bit at Jimmy. 

“Yeah, musicians are notoriously terrible husband material.” The older man says easily, shrugging. 

“Says the asshole who disappears from the face of the planet for _years_ at a time.” Fiona snaps. Then immediately cringes and looks back at Ian. “That wasn’t about you. It’s different.” 

“Yeah, that’s what they’ve been saying.” Ian gestures vaguely behind him, to where Lip, Mandy, and Mickey are still standing. 

“Well, they’re right,” Fiona says strongly, and Ian looks like he actually believes her. Like maybe, for as many times as Mickey and Lip and Mandy have said it, she’s the person he’d needed to hear it from the most. Mickey feels all of his fear and jealousy slipping away as relief settles warmly in his gut and spreads out through the rest of his body; the ripple effect of easing tension. 

“Oh, they’re totally right.” Jimmy adds, sounding so casual that it’s almost comforting in its own right. “You’re sick, I’m an asshole.” 

“Damn right you’re an asshole.” Fiona agrees before Ian can respond. 

“An asshole you still love.” 

Fiona goes still, her knuckles white on Ian’s shoulders. Mickey might feel inclined to step between the siblings, if Ian weren’t looking at Fiona with that goddamned expression on his face. The one that says, _we both know he’s right, you’re holding on so tight because you know he’s right_. 

“I don’t.” She finally responds, voice cold. Mickey almost believes her. 

Jimmy just smiles. “Liar.” 

“Get out!” She shouts. Finally, finally letting go of Ian so she can shove Jimmy forcefully out the door. Mickey and Mandy have to move. “Out!” 

She turns back to them once he’s across the threshold, taking a deep breath. “I have to…” she gestures to where Jimmy is waiting on the sidewalk outside. Mickey glances at Ian and then at Lip, just to see if their expressions are the same. They are. They both know exactly what’s going to happen next. “I’m so fucking glad you’re back.” She goes to Ian again, leans forward and kisses his cheek. “Don’t go anywhere, okay? I’ll make dinner when I come back inside. Or, we’ll order a pizza. The kids missed you.” 

“I missed them. All of you.” Ian nods. “Don’t do anything you’re gonna regret out there, okay?” 

“I won’t.” She says firmly. “I don’t love him anymore.” 

Lip and Ian don’t say anything to that until the door shuts behind her and she’s well out of earshot, but as soon as they do, it’s in unison: “Liar.” 

***

The younger Gallaghers immediately jump on Ian like they haven’t seen him in years, asking him question after question almost as soon as Fiona is gone. 

_“Where were you?”_

_“Where’s Monica?”_

_“Did you join a cult? Frank said that Monica joined a cult once.”_

_“Did you get hurt? Were you in a coma?”_

“Did you go to Colorado?” Comes from Carl at one point. 

Debbie looks at him when he asks, face openly annoyed. “Why would he go to Colorado?” 

“Free weed.” The younger Gallagher responds with a wide, dopey grin, like he might be a little baked right now himself. 

“Not free, idiot,” Debbie just rolls her eyes, “legal.” 

The questions continue until Mickey stops them. “Okay, alright, _jesus_.” He waves his hands when they pause to look up at him. Well, Debbie looks up, Carl just looks. Shit, that kid’s gotten tall. “Calm down.” 

“It’s fine, Mick.” Ian assures him, smiling when he whips around to glare at the redhead. 

“It’s annoying,” Mickey grumbles, the immediate edge of defensiveness he’d felt softening some at Ian’s open fondness for his siblings. “Anyway, we gonna spy on your sister through the window or not?” 

It’s downright comical, how fast every single Gallagher in the room rushes towards the curtains, even Lip and Ian, who move admittedly slower than Debbie or Carl, but nowhere near slow enough to mask their blatant curiosity. Even Liam crawls up on a cushion next to Debbie – he probably doesn’t even understand what’s happening, just following his siblings out of habit. 

Mandy and Mickey share a glance after a few seconds, both smirking at the sight, and then shrugging, at almost the same moment, before walking up behind the other family and peering over their shoulders. 

They stay there and watch, only mumbling the occasional comment to each other, until Fiona and Jimmy start making out on the sidewalk. 

“You owe me ten bucks.” Carl is the first one to comment, and it’s directed at Debbie. 

Little Red grumbles something unintelligible, but hands Carl two crinkled five-dollar bills all the same. 

“You put money on this?” Lip quirks an eyebrow at them. 

“You guys would’ve, too.” Carl says with an eyeroll, happily pocketing his sister’s cash. 

Mickey watches as Lip and Ian share a glance. “He’s probably right.” The redhead shrugs lightly. “I woulda bet anything that Jimmy coming back would end like this.” 

Lip glances at the window again briefly, and then back at his brother, “And I would’ve called you an idiot and raised you double.” He sighs. “Carl, what do we know about musician husband guy?” 

The younger Gallagher shrugs. “I dunno. He’s a little older than Fiona, he’s in a band.” The kid scratches his cheek. “His name’s Gus?” 

“Oh, I’m glad we’re so informed.” Ian comments when his brother abruptly stops talking, looking more amused than worried, but there’s definitely a little bit of both. 

“He’s not moving in here.” Lip declares, crossing his arms. 

“ _You_ don’t live here anymore.” Mandy mentions, eyeing him incredulously. 

“I’ll move back.” Lip huffs, and they can all tell that his words are just a byproduct of annoyance and fear. 

“And go to school how?” Debbie demands. 

“Get a car.” Lip throws his hands up, frustrated. 

“Wait, is _Ian_ moving back?” Carl asks suddenly, turning towards his older brothers and looking at them for a second, before glancing over at where Mickey’s standing with his hands in his pockets. 

He feels himself freeze at the boy’s question. 

From the couch, Ian’s looking at him with a similar deer-in-the-headlights expression. “We, uh –”

“Of course he’s moving back.” Debbie inadvertently talks over Ian’s stammering, because she’s only looking at Carl. “He said he was.” 

“No, he said he wasn’t running off again.” Carl counters with a childish expression of mockery. “Doesn’t mean he’s gonna live _here_. He’s probably gonna move in with Mickey.” 

“That’s stupid,” Debbie rebuts, causing Mickey to make a face against his will, something with a scrunched forehead and narrowed eyes. Neither Debbie nor Carl see it, but the older Gallagher’s sure do. “They haven’t been together that long.” 

“They were together at least a year before Ian left.” Carl shoots back, looking smug. 

“ _What_?” Debbie nearly screams. 

“More like two and a half,” Lip chimes in, also smirking somewhat triumphantly when Debbie’s eyes widen in shock. Mickey wonders if it’s a family thing, trying to outsmart Debbie. Mickey has a feeling that she’s always been one of the cleverer Gallaghers. 

“Hold up,” Mickey interrupts, looking at Ian but gesturing to Lip, “how long has fuck-face known about us?” 

Ian shrugs and bites his lip, trying to hide a smile and failing. “Since right after Kash shot you.” 

Mickey’s eyes go wide, darting between the two older brothers. “Damn,” he finally releases a breath and nods towards Lip. “You got less of a big mouth than I’d’a thought.” 

“Thanks?” Lip looks unimpressed with Mickey’s words, which is fair, but it’s not like Mickey’s going to stand here and profess his undying bro-love for Ian’s brother. The guy’s still a dick, and just like Mickey had once told his head-shrinker, had probably only kept quiet about what he knew for Ian’s sake. 

“Woulda been nice if you told _me_.” Mandy pipes up, crossing her arms and glaring at all of them. “Was I the only one who didn’t know?” 

“Well, Debbie didn’t.” Carl says innocently, flinching slightly, but still grinning like mad, when she smacks him hard across the back of the head. 

“I knew they were together, jerk, I just didn’t know for how long.” 

“Hey,” Ian interrupts, clapping his hands loudly, causing everyone to look at him, “what do we have to eat? I’m starving.” 

With that, the group moves into the kitchen. 

“I texted Iggy that we were back.” Mandy says to Mickey, the both of them sitting down at the table while the Gallaghers start pilfering through the fridge and cabinets – except Liam, who, for some reason or another, decides to climb into Mickey’s lap. “He asked if we were coming home tonight.” 

Mickey absently puts an arm around the toddler sitting on his knee, once the shock of having him there wears off, and looks over at his sister. He just shakes his head at her, and shrugs. “I don’t know.” 

She studies him hard for a second, like she’s trying to read something in his face, then nods abruptly and starts typing something out on her phone. Mickey’s curious, but not enough to lean over and spy. 

“Well, this is pathetic.” Lip declares, snorting at the apparent lack of food in the house. “Pizza?” 

Debbie and Carl start talking over each other, offering topping suggestions, and it takes another ten minutes for them to sort everything out and actually call the order in; by the time they do, Ian’s made a big bowl of popcorn for everyone to split in the meantime, and has taken a seat next to Mickey at the table. Liam almost immediately jumps down from where he’d been resting against Mickey’s chest and moves into a similar position on top of Ian. Mickey wonders if the kid had picked him first because he smells like the wayward Gallagher. 

The redhead smiles fondly at his youngest brother, and no one else even blinks an eye at Ian holding him – if there’s any leftover resentment about Ian kidnapping the kid, they’re all hiding it pretty damn well. 

They talk about boring shit for a while – Debbie and Carl’s school work (Debbie’s starting high school in a few days, who would’ve thought?), Liam’s Head Start progress reports, how Frank’s been steadily destroying his new liver one homemade beer at a time, and how he’d accidently blown up Shelia’s house (that one isn’t actually that boring, and Mickey’s the one asking for details). 

They’re half an hour into waiting for the pizza before Fiona comes back inside and joins them all at the kitchen table like nothing out of the ordinary is going on at all. The kids press her for details about Jimmy, but she remains aloof, offering only small smiles and vague answers. Mickey wonders if the two of them had found a place to bang – she’s definitely got that post-sex hair thing going on. 

It disturbs him a little bit that he knows Ian’s sister well enough that he can recognize her sex hair. It gets him thinking that maybe he’d spent way more time with the Gallaghers than he’d realized, back before he had gotten locked up. 

Mickey and Lip split the cost of the pizzas when they finally show up, and the eight of them eat in relative silence for a while – Ian taking it upon himself to tear up smaller pieces for Liam, who’s still sitting on his lap – until Carl burps loudly, pats his own chest over Fiona and Debbie’s protests, and then glances at Ian. 

“So, where were you?” He asks again, more serious this time, and Mickey cringes when everyone at the table freezes. “Where’s Monica?” 

Ian takes a deep breath, handing his last pizza crust to Liam as he glances around the table at all his siblings, Mandy, and finally Mickey. The older boy doesn’t really know what to do, if Ian wants him to deflect the question or not, so he just raises his eyebrows, hoping the redhead gets what he’s trying to say without words – _Your call, Gallagher. I’ll follow your lead, no matter what_. 

Ian nods, almost imperceptibly, and then looks back at Carl. “We were in Tennessee for a while.” He shares. “Monica had a friend there. Then she split after some shit went down, and I wound up following one of that guy’s cousins to New York. That’s where I’ve been for the last four or five months.” 

He’s obviously omitting a lot, but Mickey thinks that’s more for Debbie and Carl’s sake, and wouldn’t be surprised if he told the whole story, or at least more of it, to Fiona later. The two of them share a look, anyway. 

“I’ve always wanted to go to New York.” Debbie pipes up, sounding a little jealous, but mostly intrigued. “Were you in Manhattan?” 

Ian snorts at his sister. “Nah, it’s way too expensive there. I was in Hell’s Kitchen.” 

“Like Daredevil and The Punisher?” Carl lights up. 

Ian laughs, deep and fond. “Y’know, that was one of my first thoughts when I got there, too.” 

Mickey hadn’t known that, and thinks it’s almost sweet, how Ian’s looking at Carl like he’s truly happy he can relate to the kid. As far as he’s ever been able to tell, Ian and Carl are the two Gallagher siblings with the least in common, and if Carl’s sudden eclipsing smile is anything to go by, he’s not the only one who thinks so. The kid is clearly thrilled by Ian’s admission. 

“You know one of the guys from _Walking Dead_ plays him in the Netflix remake.” Carl adds, shrugging a little like it doesn’t matter, but still grinning. “It’s pretty good.” 

“No shit?” Mandy’s interest peaks suddenly, because she’s got a stupid obsession with that zombie show, and always binge-watches every season as soon as it shows up on Netflix. “Which guy?” 

“Shane.” Debbie answers. “He’s _really_ good as The Punisher, but I still like Daredevil better. As a character.” 

“You’re whacked.” Carl snorts. “The Punisher is the shit.” 

“I’ve seen it,” Ian says, “and Carl’s right. The Punisher is way better.” 

Carl beams again. 

“You guys just like him because he uses guns, and Daredevil doesn’t.” Debbie makes a face at them. 

“Well, yeah,” Ian and Carl share a look and shrug, like she’s a little dense for stating the obvious. 

“I’d watch a superhero show just to see Shane as The Punisher.” Mandy chimes in. “He’s fucking hot.” 

“Language.” Fiona reprimands half-heartedly, glancing at Liam – who’s still perfectly distracted gnawing on Ian’s pizza crust. “But you’re not wrong.” She looks back up and smiles slyly at Mandy. 

“When do you have time to watch _The Walking Dead_?” Lip asks, but he’s smirking at the two of them, clearly amused. 

“House arrest, little brother.” Fiona says sagely. “I also got through four seasons of _Hoarders_.” 

“Is that why you cleaned out the attic a couple months ago?” Debbie asks. 

Fiona nods. “I also helped Mandy clean up your place,” she says this to Mickey, and her words are casual enough, but the look in her eyes is deeply telling, and he gets the sense that she’s known for a long time, how everything with him and Ian was going to play out. “Looks good over there now, huh?” 

“Uh, yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck, unsure how to respond. 

“Like a brand-new house.” Lip chimes in, also smirking like he knows something Mickey doesn’t – but then, he always looks like that. 

“I can’t wait to see it.” Ian says, smiling widely. 

Mickey doesn’t mean to glance over at him, doesn’t mean to smile back as softly and fondly as he does, but he can’t help it, and every single Gallagher at the table, plus his own sister, sees it clear as day. Mickey doesn’t really mind, though. If this is what their life is going to be like now – soft and calm in between the inevitable swells of drama – he’ll let them see everything. 

***

No final decisions get made about their permanent living arrangements, but they agree that for tonight Lip and Mandy will go back to the Milkovich house, and Mickey and Ian will stay here, laying claim to Lip’s private room and bigger bed. 

Fiona’s pleased with the temporary arrangement, and Mickey kind of likes that no one had even asked if he was planning on staying with Ian wherever he wound up wanting to be – they’d all just known that he would, and hadn’t batted an eye. 

Later, after Mandy and Lip are gone, Liam’s been put to bed, and Debbie and Fiona are upstairs in their respective rooms, Mickey and Ian are sitting on the living room floor (because Frank’s still passed out on the couch, and they can’t fit on either chair together), slowly going through all of Ian’s medications. Mickey’s listening to everything the redhead is saying about dosages and timing and aftereffects so intently that he doesn’t even notice it when Carl walks into the room. 

“That’s a lot of pills.” The younger boy comments abruptly, causing Mickey to startle slightly. 

“Jesus, kid, make a noise.” He snaps, moving his hand from where it had automatically clenched down around Ian’s thigh. 

Carl doesn’t respond to him, his eyes fixed on the pill bottles scattered over the floor in front of them. He looks a little pale. 

“Hey, it’s normal.” Ian tells him after a beat, voice taking on that soothing quality he uses sometimes with his younger siblings when he’s acting the role of parent more than brother. Lip and Ian think Fiona’s the only one raising kids around here, but Mickey sees a lot more than people give him credit for, and the older Gallagher brothers, while nowhere near their sister’s level of parental influence, definitely have their moments. 

_“You and Lip are better than Frank ever has been.”_ Carl had said once, scared and nearly-defeated in a foster family’s too-clean bedroom. 

Yeah, there are some things Mickey’s always known. 

“It is?” Carl asks Ian now, sounding a little hesitant, but a lot hopeful. 

“Yeah.” Ian says easily, casually. If they hadn’t just been talking about why Ian had refused to take them for so long, and how much they still scare him, Mickey would even believe his sincerity. “You’re not used to it because Monica never did, but this is totally normal for bipolar.”

Carl nods a few times, but he’s still staring at the floor. Mickey feels impatient, and opens his mouth to prod the younger boy into either speaking whatever’s clearly on his mind or leaving them alone, but Ian taps his knee before he gets the chance. He shakes his head when Mickey glances at him, raising his eyebrows in a silent request – _just wait_. 

Mickey huffs lightly, but leans back a little and shuts his mouth all the same. 

“So, what do they do?” Carl eventually asks, scratching at his chin. His eyes keep darting between the pill bottles, his brother, and Mickey, like he’s nervous. 

“A lot of things.” Ian explains calmly. “Mostly they just keep everything in my head stabilized, stop the disease from taking over and making me do crazy shit.” 

“Like thinking you’re a bird and jumping off a roof?” Carl asks, and Mickey actually double-takes. 

“Fuck-face said almost the same thing when we were in New York.” He comments before he can stop himself. 

Ian glances away briefly, but Carl just nods. “Monica did that once.” He explains. “The firefighters came and got her down before she could jump, though.”

“I’m surprised you remember that.” Ian says softly, and he looks pained when Mickey glances at him. He puts his hand on the redhead’s back, rubbing up and down soothingly until he feels some of the tension drain from his shoulders. 

“I hid all the ladders when you started acting weird last year.” Carl says, causing both Ian and Mickey to look at him in surprise. “Fiona hasn’t been able to clean the gutters in months.” 

Ian’s the first one to break, chuckling slightly. “You can un-hide them now, buddy.” He comments, still in that soft-parent tone. “It’s not gonna be like that anymore. Not with me.” 

Carl nods a few times, but is clearly still having a hard time wrapping his head around everything. “What’s it feel like?” 

“What do you mean?” Ian asks, placing one hand on Mickey’s knee, squeezing through his fear so his voice can still come out calm and level. 

“The stuff in your head that makes you act crazy.” Carl expands, using the only words he knows to describe the disease that his mother and brother share. “I tried asking Monica a few times, but she’d always just say a bunch of stuff about clinging to the skin of the world, and I never got it.” 

Ian inhales sharply, and Mickey leans into him a little harder, settling his hand on Ian’s side, right over where he can feel the slight protrusion of the gunshot scar under his shirt. 

“She meant…” Ian stops to take a deep breath, but then plows on, determined, “she meant that it feels like the world is moving too fast, and you have to scramble to keep up with it, like it’s making you move too fast, too. But at the same time, you’ll never be able to move fast enough.” 

Carl and Mickey are both staring at the redhead now, hanging on his every word. 

“That’s what being manic feels like.” He swallows thickly. “And it sounds scary, and sometimes it is, but a lot of the time it feels really, really amazing. Like you can do anything, y’know? Like any plan you come up with is gonna work out, and you’ve got these ideas in your head all the time, so many of them, and they’re all gold.”

“Sound fun.” Carl’s voice is muted with apprehension. 

Ian nods. “It is. For us. For me.” He licks his lips and tightens his grip on Mickey’s knee. “But to everyone else, to you guys, it just looks like we’re going insane. And it’s scary. Like when Monica let you drive that car? That terrified all of us because you got hurt, but to _her_ , she was doing something good.” 

“And the pills…” the younger boy trails off for a moment, seemingly lost in his thoughts, “the pills make everything slow down?” 

“They balance it out.” Ian agrees. “Because the other side of that mania is…well, you know.” 

Carl inhales sharply and looks away, nodding curtly. “Thanksgiving.” 

“Yeah.” Ian sighs, and Mickey doesn’t know what they’re talking about, but it’s clearly something that had been very, very bad. He takes a moment to turn his head and nuzzle against Ian’s neck, placing a light kiss there before looking back at Carl. 

“The pills level everything out,” Ian repeats, trying to sound comforting, “so maybe there are some days when I’m a little hyper, but it doesn’t feel like I’m gonna fly off the face of the planet, and it doesn’t last that long. And there’ll be other days where I might be sad, or more tired than normal, but I won’t stay in bed for weeks at a time. The pills…they can’t make it go away, nothing can do that, but they make it a lot less scary. For everyone.” 

“Can I come with you when you guys go to the doctor?” 

Mickey blinks dumbly at maybe the last words he would have expected to hear come out of Carl’s mouth in this particular moment. 

Ian seems equally shocked. “What?” 

“Fiona and Lip went last time, and they came back with all this zen bullshit about breathing exercises, and workout routines, and eating healthy, but then you still left.” Mickey might have snapped at the younger boy for his comment, but it’s beyond clear that he’s terrified, not angry. “So, I want to go this time, so I can at least tell if they’re doing it wrong again.” 

“Carl, they didn’t do anything wrong.” Ian immediately counters. “It’s –”

“Complicated.” The younger Gallagher cuts him off, sounding desperate. “I know, that’s what you always say. What everyone always said about Monica, and I get it, we were kids and we didn’t understand, but I do now, and I want to come with you to the doctor.” He pauses for a beat, swallowing thickly. “Please.” 

Ian glances at Mickey with his eyebrows raised, like he’s asking for an opinion. Mickey just shrugs, truly at a loss about how to handle this level of caring. 

“Sure,” Ian eventually agrees after a few moments. “I mean, if you really want to.” 

Carl doesn’t throw his hands up in victory, or rush forward to hug Ian. Instead, he merely nods a few times and calmly says, “Okay. Good.” before crossing the room and heading up the stairs. 

“Didn’t see that coming.” Mickey comments, once the kid’s gone. 

“No.” Ian agrees, but looks nothing more than fondly amused. “It’s kinda nice, though.” 

Mickey drops a chaste kiss on the redhead’s shoulder. “Yeah.” He says simply, then pulls back and clears his throat, picking up one of the pill bottles off the floor. “Now, what were you sayin’ about this one?”

***  
 _“It's like when you're a kid, the first time they tell you that the world is turning and you just can't quite believe it 'cause everything looks like it's standing still. I can feel it... the turn of the earth. The ground beneath our feet is spinning at a thousand miles an hour. The entire planet is hurtling around the sun at sixty-seven thousand miles an hour. And I can feel it. We're falling through space, you and me, clinging to the skin of this tiny little world. And, if we let go...” – Doctor Who, “Rose”_  
***

___________________________________________________

**Next Time:**

_More than that, Fiona’s involvement irrevocably cements their two families together. What could have very easily stayed a facet of Ian’s life – born from his relationship with Mickey and separate from his siblings – becomes a conscious unity between all of them._

___________________________________________________


	14. We Built This Thing, Let’s Call It Home

**\--XIV--**

_We Built This Thing, Let’s Call It Home_

***

It’s not all sunshine and daisies as soon as they’re home, and for the first few months, a lot of shit goes wrong. Mickey doesn’t really know how to handle it when it does, because it’s not like he’s an expert on conflict resolution, and six months of prison-mandated therapy sessions don’t exactly erase an entire life of growing up with Terry Milkovich. 

Sometimes he gets impatient, screams when he shouldn’t, slams doors hard enough to break them, and walks out in the middle of conversations – and sometimes Ian’s patient with him, understands all the damage his childhood had done, and deals with it. Other times, the redhead screams right back, punches holes in the wall, and breaks whatever object is closest to him in his rage.

It’s a steady dance of trial and error, and sometimes they both get it wrong. 

Mickey never leaves, though. Even when he wants to – when he’s craving the sweet release of just tossing his hands in the air and saying _fuck this shit, I’m out_ – he never does. Because he remembers what it was like the last time he was gone, and no matter how painful it gets, anything is better than losing himself like that again. 

Ian never leaves, either. Mickey doesn’t know if he would want to at all, if not for the bipolar. Because sometimes he sees it rising to the surface, like the swell of a tide, and can do nothing but watch as Ian struggles to not let it drag him under. 

They go to the doctor whenever they need to, and usually that’s Mickey’s call, though sometimes one of the other Gallaghers will notice the signs first, but Ian always gives it to them – well, usually always. Sometimes his brain gets in the way, but Mickey’s gotten good at negotiating with Ian in every one of his moods. And if for any reason Mickey can’t do it, if Ian just won’t listen to him no matter how hard he tries, Fiona or Carl can usually manage to get him out of the house and to his doctor’s office. It’s a balance they all work hard at keeping in place, no matter what the cost. 

Part of what keeps them so steady is that Mickey doesn’t think too hard about Jimmy paying for Ian’s medical treatment. It’s not like he doesn’t want to accept the help out of some misguided display of self-sufficiency – he and Ian had had that fight at the very beginning, and the redhead had lost it with spectacular ease – it’s more about Jimmy’s money being _Ned’s_ money. 

As far as he knows, Jimmy doesn’t talk to either of his parents that often, if at all, and is probably pulling the cash out of some trust fund or something. Hell, it might not even be from his rich parents – Jimmy’s a career criminal, after all, and had probably banked a lot of dough before cashing out and settling down with the Gallaghers again. Either way, Ian gets top-rate doctors that they’d never be able to afford otherwise, and that’s all that Mickey will let matter. 

It takes a while, even with the best-in-their-field, grossly overpaid psychiatric professionals, to find a combination of meds that work. Most of the fighting, and the wanting to leave, happens while they’re still trying to sort it out. Looking back, Mickey thinks of those as the bad months – when Ian had come home from his job at the diner with third-degree burns on his hand because _“I just wanted to feel something. Anything, Mick. You don’t know what it’s like to not feel anything.”_ that had probably been the worst one; and the only time he’d talked seriously with Fiona about having Ian hospitalized. It’s also the event that had spurred Jimmy into insisting on paying for Ian to see a real doctor, _“not an overworked med school student doing a psych rotation.”_

There had been a lot of fighting for a while, and even more conversations, but eventually it had all leveled out. Ian’s meds work as well as they ever will, and Mickey’s not scared of losing him all the time anymore. He hadn’t even realized how much that had been affecting him until Mandy had pointed it out. He and Ian had talked about it after that, everything that Mickey’s afraid of, and it had gone a long way in settling them down. 

Their life isn’t perfect now, not even close, but it’s so much better than it might have been if things had gone even a little bit differently. 

“We’re lucky,” Mickey tells him one night, moderately drunk and a lot happy, sitting out on the front porch smoking even though the air is bitingly cold. 

“Come inside.” Ian says from where he’s standing behind him, nudging his ass gently with the toe of his boot. “It’s fucking freezing.” 

“Can’t.” Mickey shakes his head. God, he shouldn’t’ve have let Kev buy him that last drink tonight. He doesn’t even remember what the guy – who’s technically his boss, though Mickey’s never been able to think of him like that with any kind of sincerity – had been celebrating. Something about his wife or babies, probably, but it had meant triple shots after the bar had closed, and a few hits of damn decent weed. 

“You can’t come inside?” Ian repeats, sounding confused and a little annoyed. “Are you glued to that step or something?” 

Mickey looks up over his shoulder and grins widely. “Nope. Just can’t.” He explains, doing his best to keep his voice low. “It’s a secret.” 

Ian’s face scrunches. “What’s a secret?” 

“Exactly.” Mickey chuckles, then rolls his eyes at his boyfriend’s blatant annoyance. “Oh, shut up, Gallagher. I told you, we’re lucky.” 

“And why’s that?” Ian finally sighs and sits down next to him, wrapping his arm around Mickey’s shoulders and letting the shorter man curl into the warmth of his body. 

Mickey sighs happily. “We figured it out, and we stayed together.” 

Ian’s arm tightens around him, and when he speaks again there’s no trace of annoyance in his tone. “Yeah, we did.” 

“I love you.” Mickey tells him, because the words feel really important right now, and he can’t remember the last time he’d said them. 

“I love you, too.” Ian leans over and presses a kiss against him temple. Then he whispers into Mickey’s hair, “This.” 

The older man smiles widely. “Us.” 

***

The next morning dawns bright and way too fucking early. Mickey rolls over as soon as his brain tries to lead him into consciousness, burying his head in Ian’s too-cold pillow and pulling the blanket up over himself. 

It’s useless, though. Ian’s not in bed, and as much as Mickey hates that he can’t sleep without the fucker next to him anymore, he _really_ can’t sleep without that fucker next to him anymore. So, with one last deep breath, he pulls himself out of bed, rubbing groggily at his eyes, and makes his way into the kitchen. 

Ian’s at the stove cooking pancakes, or eggs, or something else domestic and breakfast-esque when Mickey walks up behind him and wraps his arms around the redhead’s waist, nuzzling into the warm skin of his neck. “Come back to bed.” He mutters, losing his voice halfway through and not giving a single shit, because it’s Tuesday, Mickey’s day off, and he’s fucking tired as shit and hungover to boot. 

Ian just huffs a laugh, placing one of his hands over Mickey’s, crossed on his stomach, and squeezing gently. “Can’t.” He uses his other hand to wave a spatula at the kitchen table, “We got company.” 

Mickey glances over just long enough to see Iggy sitting at the table with Liam in his lap, the two engrossed in some kind of woodblock puzzle. Mickey’s brother is smirking knowingly, and probably not at the five-year-old he’s holding. 

“Fuck it, Iggy’s got him.” Mickey declares, closing his eyes and moving farther into Ian, kissing his neck the way he knows the other man _thoroughly_ enjoys. 

Ian groans a little, trying to muffle the sound by biting his lip, but Mickey still smirks, openly triumphant. 

“Hey now, innocent eyes in the room.” Iggy pipes up, causing Mickey to groan for an entirely different reason. 

“We used to fuck ten feet away from the kid.” He snaps at his brother. “I think he’s immune to it at this point.” 

“Only when he was asleep.” Ian quickly counters, flicking Mickey’s forearm lightly. “And we’re not fucking.” 

“I know foreplay when I see it.” Iggy huffs. “Besides, I was talking about me, not him.” 

Mickey grumbles about it, but moves away from Ian all the same. He’s up now, anyway, and that means coffee is most definitely a top priority. As he’s fixing himself a cup, Ian starts moving around the kitchen, getting plates and utensils together. Every time he passes by Mickey, he lets some part of their bodies touch – a hand on his hip, fingers ghosting across his neck, a gentle kick to the back of his shin, half a dozen quick, stolen kisses – and the older man accepts each and every one of them. Relishes the freedom of contact. 

Mickey’s not sure if this is what everyone else means when they talk about domesticity, but he can see the appeal if it is. He gets why people fight for this. Why _they’d_ fought for this. 

“What’s the littlest Gallagher doing here, anyway?” Mickey asks, once they’re all seated around the table with breakfast in front of them. 

Liam’s sitting in his own chair now, shoveling pre-cut pancakes into his mouth and looking between the adults like he understands exactly what they’re saying. Shit, he probably does. Kid’s not much of a talker, never really has been as far as Mickey can tell, but he’s got that look – not dissimilar to Lip’s all-knowing superior one, though way less cocky and annoying – like he understands absolutely everything. 

“Fiona’s pulling doubles ever since Sean fell off the wagon,” Ian explains. “and Carl’s got community service.” 

“What about Debbie?” Mickey asks, oddly content in the knowledge that he’s up-to-date with all the Gallagher family goings on. 

Ian just rolls his eyes. “She started screaming something about some boy and buying a new outfit when Fiona asked her. I volunteered just to make her shut up.” 

“That girl’s gonna wind up dropping out of school or getting knocked up if you guys don’t start watching that shit.” Iggy comments, handing Liam his last piece of sausage when the little boy makes a particularly wide-eyed, wanting face at him. 

“Debbie’s smart.” Ian responds, though he sounds a little unsure. “She’s just being a teenager.” 

“Didn’t Mickey have to beat the shit out of some twenty-year-old dude she was trying to fuck last month?” Iggy counters. Having been on the outside of the drama for that one, the older Milkovich doesn’t know what an ordeal that had truly been. 

Fiona had come over to talk to Ian one day, when she’d found out about Debbie’s plan to lose her virginity to the grown-ass adult she’d somehow seduced, but Mickey had been the only one home at the time. They’d wound up spending the afternoon together, day-drinking cheap wine and even cheaper beer, until the eldest Gallagher had finally confessed her fears about her little sister. After that, all Mickey had seen was red. 

He’d flashed back on a shorter, younger, freckled-faced Ian being manipulated by that fucking pedophile Kash. To this day, one of the only things Lip and Mickey have ever agreed on is that Kash had been a creep, and had taken advantage of Ian’s state-of-mind as a gay Southside teenager to get in his pants. Ian always insists the relationship had been one of equals, but Mickey just doesn’t fucking buy it, and never will. 

The thought of Ian’s little sister falling victim to the same kind of situation had lit a fire in his belly, and he’d gone out and found the punk – once Fiona had, not so reluctantly, told him how to – and beat the ever living shit out of him. 

Ian hadn’t been as angry as Mickey had thought he would when he’d found out about it. There’d been a brief fight, but in the end Ian would have done the same thing, and had mostly just been pissed that Mickey hadn’t told him about it beforehand so he could help. Debbie hasn’t said two words to either of them since then, but Mickey knows that’ll pass. 

In response to Iggy’s question, Ian just hums. “Wasn’t worse than anything you guys would’ve done for Mandy when she was that age.” He points out. 

“Who would’ve done what for me?” The girl in question asks, entering the kitchen just in time to hear Ian’s comment. 

“Beat the shit out of any guy that messed with you.” Ian explains, tilting back in his chair to grin up at her. 

It’s a little funny, even all these years later, that Mickey and Ian’s relationship had started as a direct result of Mandy crying wolf because Ian hadn’t wanted to fuck her. 

“Debbie?” She asks, coming up behind Mickey and stealing a pancake off his stack, despite his glare. 

“Yeah.” Ian nods. “Iggy thinks she’s gonna wind up pregnant.” 

Mickey notices it when Mandy pauses at her best friend’s words and, very briefly, the two youngest Milkovich’s share a look. 

“I could talk to her.” Mandy offers after a beat, rolling up the stolen pancake and taking a bite. “She might listen to a girl who isn’t related to her.” 

“That be great, Mands,” Ian sighs in relief, causing Mickey to eye him sharply. For the past few weeks, the redhead’s been rather nonchalant about his sister’s impending decent into Southside statistics, but Mickey can see now the true scope of fear he’s been hiding. 

“After I get outta work today.” She nods decisively. “I’m also taking Liam to preschool.”

“I was gonna.” Ian mentions, sounding confused. 

“Stay here,” Mandy waves an arm, forcing a casual expression. “Have sex with my brother, fill out more applications. You having any luck with that, by the way?” 

Ian’s been working a few hours a week at a small bookstore near the center of Chicago – which actually pays pretty decent, considering – but ever since he’d quit Patsy’s, he’s been looking for something full-time. 

“Not really,” the younger man shrugs. “Been thinking about taking some trade classes,” he sounds distracted. “Are you sure you wanna take Liam? You really don’t –”

“It’s fine.” Mandy cuts him off, fiddling with the pancake in her hand. Mickey can see her trying to make a decision, and holds his breath. “Besides,” she says, inhaling deeply and looking up with a determined expression, “it’ll be good practice.” 

“Practice for what?” Ian asks. He tries to look at Mickey, but the dark-haired man abruptly glances away under the pretense of helping Liam hold his fork correctly. 

“For when I have mine.” 

“Have yours what?” Iggy asks, and Mickey can tell from his tone that he already knows, just can’t quite believe it, and needs to hear it out loud. Ian doesn’t say anything. 

“I’m pregnant.” Mandy blurts. 

Mickey can’t stop himself, and looks up just in time to see Ian’s eyes widen, right along with his brother’s. 

Silence falls between them, drawn out and impossibly uncomfortable. 

“You’re…” Iggy starts, looking torn between about ten different emotions. Mickey gets what he’s feeling – he’d had the same reaction when Mandy had told him last week. 

“Pregnant.” She repeats when her older brother trails off, sounding firm even though her hands are shaking. “And I’m keeping it. I’m gonna raise it, alone. I’m not sure who the father is, so don’t even ask. He’s not a factor. It’s gonna be just me, and as much as you assholes wanna help. I’m not moving out. You can, if you have a problem with it.” 

It’s everything she told Mickey she was going to say, as soon as she found the _right moment_ , or whatever. Mickey hadn’t pictured it happening over breakfast in their oddly bright kitchen, but he figures – what the hell, right?

Ian turns to him suddenly, expression suspicious. “Is that why you insisted on smoking outside last night?” 

“You _knew_?” Iggy balks in his direction. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I asked him not to.” Mandy answers for him swiftly. “I wasn’t sure if I was gonna…but I am. And that’s that.” She nods decisively, mostly to herself, and then looks at Liam. “C’mon, buddy, finish your breakfast. We have to get going.” 

“Who else knows?” Iggy asks, while Ian remains silent with a thoughtful expression that Mickey can’t quite decipher. 

“Just Mickey.” Mandy says, then pauses. “And Fiona.” 

“Fi-Fi has secret.” Liam pipes up, smirking like he had been in on it, too. Which, with the way they all tend to talk in front of the kid like he doesn’t understand anything they say, maybe he even had been. 

Ian snorts, but doesn’t comment. 

“You told a _Gallagher_ before you told me?” Iggy exclaims, outraged. “Did you know?” He turns towards Ian. “Tell me you didn’t know.” 

“I didn’t know.” Ian repeats, but he doesn’t look as shocked as Iggy does, or as Mickey had felt when he’d first found out. 

“We’re leaving now.” Mandy’s managed to drag Liam away from the table, and is shoving his arms into his puffy winter jacket. “Work out your issues before I get home.” She adds. “Stress is bad for the baby.” 

Iggy is leaning back in his chair, completely dumbstruck by the time she makes it out the front door. “I feel ya.” Mickey says, nodding at his brother in sympathy. Then he looks at Ian, who’s still staring straight ahead like he’s trying to figure something out. “You okay, man?” 

Ian springs up then, so fast that both Milkovich brothers flinch at the sudden movement. 

“Sorry,” he tosses over his shoulder when he notes their reaction, but doesn’t stop moving. In under a minute, he has his shoes and jacket on, and is sprinting out the door after Mandy and his little brother. 

“Hey, Ian,” Mickey calls out, but doesn’t get a response. He thinks about running after the other man, but he’s only wearing boxers and a t-shirt, and it would take him longer to get dressed than it would for Ian and Mandy to make it five blocks, toddler at their heels or no. So he just drops his head into his hands and sighs. 

“You worried your boyfriend’s too whacked out to handle this?” Iggy asks, sounding nonchalant even as Mickey whips his head up and shoots his brother a death glare. 

“The fuck did you just say?” 

Iggy shrugs, only looking mildly concerned at Mickey’s tone. “I just mean, his whole thing these days is about routine and shit, isn’t it?” He sniffs when Mickey raises his eyebrows. “That’s what all you guys, fucking Gallaghers included, spent months on end screaming about. Routine, stability, predictability. That’s what makes him all not-insane, right?” 

Mickey just sighs heavily. He knows, in his own way, Iggy is asking a sincere question, and he tries not to let his anger overpower his ability to answer it, because it’s actually a kind of fair one. “The pills do that, mostly.” He cocks his head, relenting. “But yeah, the same shit over and over again, that helps. He…he needs that.” 

“Babies aren’t very stable.” Iggy says, and Mickey wouldn’t know he was scared if it weren’t for the way his eyes dart to what used to be their father’s room. 

“We’ll handle it.” Mickey tells him, more comforting than he means to. Because maybe these words aren’t just for his brother. This is something he’s been thinking about since Mandy had come to him, tears in her eyes, begging for advice about what she should do. He hadn’t let thoughts of Ian influence his words to his sister – he knows neither Ian nor Mandy would have ever forgiven him for that – but once she’d decided to keep the little parasite invading her uterus, the fear had started to creep in. 

“It’ll be kinda cool, though, right?” Iggy speaks again, after several minutes of silence. “Being an uncle.” 

“Sure.” Mickey agrees half-heartedly, having put exactly zero thought into his role in this kid’s life. 

“Yeah.” His older brother nods, enthusiasm gaining momentum. “Finally get a Milkovich that’ll turn out decent, maybe even finish high school.”

“Fuck that,” Mickey counters immediately, without even really meaning to, feeling something like possessive pride flaring to life in his gut. “Kid’s going to college.” 

“Yeah.” Iggy says again, grinning wider than before. “Ivy league.” 

***  
***

“Yo!” 

It doesn’t take long for him to catch up with Mandy once he bolts out of the house, but his best friend is doing a good job ignoring him. If it weren’t for Liam tugging determinedly at her hand, Ian doesn’t think she would have slowed down at all. 

“You can’t talk me out of it.” She bursts, once Ian’s in front of her, walking backwards in order to hold her gaze. “I’m having this baby, Ian.”

“Fine by me.” The redhead shrugs, truly at ease, and doing his best to let Mandy see that. “I was just wondering if you’ve thought about names at all yet.” 

Mandy slows down a little more then, narrowing her eyes at him. “What?” 

“Because I wanna put my suggestions in right now.” He continues, making a face at Liam to let the little boy know he’s aware of him. Liam giggles, and bounces up and down a few times at his brother’s attention. 

“Yeah?” She asks, sounding disbelieving. “This your way of softening me up before you tell me I should get an abortion?” 

“Come on, Mandy.” Ian rolls his eyes, a little defensive but not hurt by his friend’s words, because he knows they’re coming from a place of fear that has nothing to do with him. “I’m not that much of an asshole. It’s always your choice.” He sniffs. “I believed that when I helped you raise money to have an abortion, and I still believe it now that you want to keep this one.” 

“You don’t think I’m a slut?” She asks, voice dipping a little, and Ian tries to remember everything he’s ever learned about pregnancy and hormones. 

“I think slut is a stupid label.” He says, because it’s mostly true. “I’ve got two liberal-minded sisters, and _you’ve_ been yacking in my ear for years about the freedom of sexuality and female power. You’re really gonna call yourself a slut _now_? Just because you don’t know who your baby-daddy is?” 

She snorts softly, and it sounds a little like she might be holding back tears, but Ian can tell her amusement is genuine, and he beams. 

“I was so scared when I found out.” She confesses, and Ian’s face softens. He readjusts his gait so he’s walking on the other side of Liam now, both of them holding one of the boy’s hands in their own. 

“I’m glad you talked to Mickey.” He says, and means it. “You could’ve talked to me, too. Just, so you know.” 

She smiles at him, a look on her face like they’re both teenagers again. Well, technically they both _are_ still teenagers, but Ian doesn’t feel like one anymore. She probably doesn’t, either. 

“I know.” She says softly. “I was gonna. But Mickey…”

“He’s family.” Ian fills in. 

“You are, too.” She’s quick to insist. “I mean, you guys are basically ghetto-married at this point. And even of you weren’t my kinda-brother-in-law, you’ve been my best friend for a stupid long time. You’re family, Ian. Our family. Don’t ever forget that.” She sniffs again. 

“Oh, god,” Ian groans with overexaggerated reluctance. “You’re gonna be one of those dramatic pregnant women, aren’t you? Crying at cereal commercials and anytime you see a puppy.” 

Mandy reaches over to smack his chest. He doesn’t even try to deflect it. “Bite me, fucker.” She says, but she’s grinning around her almost-tears. 

“Mandy bad word.” Liam comments, catching both of their attentions. While he has it, he tugs on their respective hands insistently. “Jump now.” 

Ian knows what he wants immediately, and explains it to his confused friend. A few seconds later, Mandy and Ian pull at Liam’s arms in unison, causing the young boy to giggle, clearly delighted, as his feet leave the pavement in an extended jump. They continue to do that every few steps, falling into an easy rhythm. 

“Did Fiona say you should get an abortion?” Ian asks, wondering why that was the first thing Mandy had said. 

“She didn’t _encourage_ it.” She explains after a beat. “Just reminded me that it was an option.” 

Ian hums thoughtfully. He knows he’ll never be in Mandy’s position – not even on the guy side of it – and doesn’t want to overstep. “But you’re gonna have it.” He doesn’t phrase it like a question. He doesn’t need to. 

“Yeah.” She nods anyway, pausing for a second and glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “What do you think about that?” 

“Are you asking me if I think you’re strong enough to raise a baby?” Ian asks, incredulous. 

“No,” she smirks, “I know you think I can do that. I’m just…I mean, are you gonna…It’s not gonna make you leave, right?” 

He almost drops Liam on one of their upswings he’s so shocked by her words. “Mandy, why the fuck would I leave?” 

She shrugs, not looking at him. “You spent your whole life raising kids.” She says simply, nodding down at Liam. “And I know you love them,” she adds hastily, “but living with Mickey, with us…I mean, your bipolar is finally under control, and you guys have been having fun.” She shrugs again. “You never really got a chance to do that, before.” 

Ian tilts his head, curious. Mandy reads his silence and keeps talking. 

“Living in a house with a baby, even if it’s not yours, it makes everything different.” She sighs. “I don’t want you, or Mickey or Iggy, to feel trapped there, y’know? It’s not your guy’s fault I got knocked up, and I can do it alone. Like, if you and Mickey wanted to move out, I could –”

“Mandy, shut the fuck up.” Ian inadvertently quotes his boyfriend, and smiles to himself when he realizes it. “I never got the chance to have fun? Are you even hearing yourself?”

“I just mean –”

“I was a dancer at four different gay clubs,” he interrupts, with a single-minded determination to make a point. “I went to afterparties, and after- _after_ parties, and a few honest to god orgies. I fucked so many dudes I was literally shocked when my STD screen came back negative.” Ian shakes his head. “I lived in Hell’s Kitchen with a pill-popping bouncer, and before that in a meth lab trailer in Kentucky.” 

“Tennessee.” Mandy corrects, looking over at him, finally, with worry in her gaze. 

“Yeah, I always get those mixed up,” Ian dismisses, waving his hand. “Point is, I racked up more life experiences before my eighteenth birthday than most people get _ever_. I don’t wanna be Frank, okay? Living my life one extreme after another, one high to the next. I couldn’t deal with that. And, frankly, neither could your brother.” 

“Mickey would stay with you no matter what crazy shit you pulled.” Mandy points out, smirking a little. 

Ian returns the look, but remains serious. “I know he would. I just don’t want him to have to. I like this…this stability thing we’ve got. And, yeah, okay, we’re probably not gonna live in your childhood home forever. But, right now? Right now, you, me, Mickey – hell, Iggy, my family, all of us – this is where I wanna be.” He takes a deep breath, then reaches over and gently pats Mandy’s stomach. “And this little dude? He’s just gonna be part of it.” 

Mandy sniffs again, and there are definitely tears in her eyes this time. “You don’t know it’s gonna be a boy.” 

Ian laughs lightly, working with Mandy to swing Liam up higher. “I have a feeling.” He shrugs. “Though a girl would be cool, too.” 

Mandy smiles. “What names?” 

“Huh?” Ian asks, distracted by Liam for a second when his brother drops his foot into a particularly large snow pile. 

“You said you had name suggestions.” Mandy expands. “Let’s hear ‘em.” 

Ian grins wide and proud. “Okay, so remember that Jack Kerouac book we used to get really stoned and read out loud to each other?” 

***

“Where’s Iggy?” Ian asks when he gets home and Mickey appears to be the only person in the house. 

“Work.” Mickey responds, turning away from the sink where he’d been doing dishes – so domestic, their day to day lives now – and leaning against the counter to look at Ian. “Fiona called, asked if he could fill in for what’s-his-face. Dude lit the kitchen on fire or something. 

“Yikes.” Ian comments, sitting down to take off his shoes. 

“Yeah.” Mickey agrees, though it’s clear in his tone he barely gives a shit. It doesn’t take him another second to move on. “How’s Mandy?” 

“She’s good.” Ian says, nodding. “You know Mandy, though. She’s always been tough. This kid’s gonna be lucky.” 

“So…what do you think about all that?” Mickey sounds hesitant, and when Ian glances up he’s biting his lip. “Having a baby here?” 

Ian rolls his eyes and huffs exaggeratedly. “Is this like a Milkovich thing?” He asks, pointedly eyeing his boyfriend. “All of you think I’m gonna run off as soon as this kid pops out?”

“What? No.” Mickey snaps, but the way his face flushes is telling. “Just asking a question, man, fuck.” 

Ian sighs and stands up, moving towards Mickey with intent. As soon as he’s close enough, he puts his hands on the counter on either side of Mickey’s waist, bracketing him in. The shorter man inhales shakily when their hips slot together. He looks up at Ian, that crystal clear blue already starting to glaze over with lust and want. But Ian can see that he’s trying to hold onto whatever he’d been worried about before, too, so he sighs lightly and does his best to reassure. 

“There have always been kids in my life, Mickey,” he says softly, dipping down to kiss a trail along the tendon in his boyfriend’s neck, “I was five when Debbie was born. I was barely out of diapers when I learned how to change diapers.” He moves so that one of his legs is in between Mickey’s, pushing his thigh firmly into the older man’s groin. 

“That’s the most disturbing thing you’ve ever said to get me hard.” Mickey tries for deadpan, but his voice catches in the same moment Ian bites on his earlobe. 

He chuckles softly, causing Mickey to shiver against him. Ian takes one hand off the counter and slides it into his boyfriend’s hair, tugging just this side of too-rough, and Mickey groans openly. God, Ian loves it when they can be loud. 

“Having a kid around will change shit,” Ian continues, pushing his leg more firmly against Mickey’s rapidly hardening dick, smirking a little when the other man tilts his head upwards, baring his throat to Ian as his breath begins to come out in quick bursts. “It always does. But it’s not gonna scare me off, Mick. If anything, it’ll feel normal.” 

“Don’t want,” Mickey gasps when Ian bites down on the junction of his neck and shoulder, and then groans a little, moving his arm to push Ian back – though, it’s without too much force. The redhead complies all the same and leans far enough away that they can look at each other, raising an eyebrow expectantly. “Don’t wanna mess up the routine, or whatever.” 

Ian smiles softly. It figures that’s what Mickey’s concerned about. He ducks down kisses his boyfriend’s nose – a tender gesture that Mickey rolls his eyes at every single time Ian does it, and right now is no exception. “That’s sweet.” He says, causing Mickey to scowl, which makes Ian laugh. “But the routine always changes. You know that. New job, new schedule, new workout because there’s five feet of snow outside and even I’m not gonna go jogging in that…” he trails off with an easy shrug. “I can always find a way to make a new routine work.” 

“Well, aren’t you just Mr. Fucking Positivity?” Mickey snorts, but his eyes are bright with relief. Ian leans in again and finally captures his lips in a kiss, deepening it after only a few moments because Mickey is soft and warm and so goddamn perfect Ian feels a little bit like he’s melting every time they touch. He sighs happily when the shorter man wraps his arms around Ian’s back, pulling him in closer, and neither of them utter another word for long minutes, until the kiss finally winds down and they pull apart, both panting and painfully hard. “You sure?” Mickey asks, as soon as he catches his breath. 

Ian loves this man so much that it hurts to breathe sometimes. 

“Hey, what’s the worst-case scenario?” Ian asks, employing one of their more often-used tactics from Ian’s (and sometimes Mickey’s, though he’d never in a million years call it couple’s therapy) psychiatrist. 

The shorter man tilts his head to the side, biting at his lip until Ian thumbs over it, encouraging him to let go. Mickey grins at that, and kisses the base of Ian’s palm. “You can’t handle living with an infant, I guess. It fucks up the progress you’ve made.” 

“Okay.” Ian accepts that with a nod. “Then what?” 

Mickey rolls his eyes, mostly out of habit at this point, before taking a moment to seriously consider the question. “You move out?” 

“Or?” Ian prods. 

“We move out.” Mickey takes a deep breath, face relaxing a little bit as soon as he gets it. 

“Mhm,” Ian nods happily. “Worst-case scenario, living with a baby fucks me up, you and I move out, we babysit all the time, and no one hates us because we’ve got a built-in get out of jail free card.” 

“Hm,” Mickey looks thoughtful. “Does that mean if _I_ hate living with the kid we can move out and blame it on you?” 

“Oh yeah.” Ian grins cheekily, nodding firmly. “What’s mine is yours, baby. Mental disorder loopholes and all.” 

“Don’t call me baby.” Mickey scowls. 

The redhead laughs loudly, surging forward to kiss Mickey again, harder this time, with more intent in his movements now that the conversation portion of the morning is blessedly over. 

***

Mickey is ass up on the bed less than ten minutes later, body bowed down with his hands fisted in the sheets on either side of his head, steadily pushing back into Ian’s every thrust, clearly enjoying the combination of leverage and submission. Ian’s not surprised; this has been one of Mickey’s favorite positions ever since the first time they’d done it in that stolen hotel room. 

Just remembering that night makes Ian growl possessively. He’s got both hands on the headboard, using the angle to force himself harder and deeper inside Mickey, and the other man is grunting steadily at his efforts. 

“Fuck, Ian,” he pants, clawing at the sheets. “Fuck. _Fuck_.” 

God, he’s so gone. Ian loves getting his boyfriend to a state like this; angling his hips to make sure that every one of his thrusts hits Mickey’s prostate dead on, just to watch him writhe at the feeling. 

“Ian,” Mickey says his name again, but it’s a whine this time, thready and needy. 

“Shh, shh, I gotchya,” he mumbles. Sometimes he gets so lost in the feeling of Mickey that he forgets the other man needs to hear the words, too. “God, you feel so fucking good around me. So tight. Could come right now.” 

“Better not.” Mickey huffs, trying his best to sound stern, but his harsh breath kind of undercuts the affect. 

“Oh yeah?” Ian counters. He moves quickly, taking one hand from the headboard and wrapping it tightly around Mickey’s waist, pulling the other man even closer to him. Mickey howls at the sudden shift, raising himself up by his arms only to fall back against the mattress again a second later. 

“ _Fuck_ , Ian.” He exhales shakily. 

Ian chuckles lowly, using the new position to keep Mickey’s hips still as he pounds into him. It’s more work for him, but Mickey keens at the sudden loss of control, knuckles going stark white against the sheets. Ian can’t see, but he’d bet money that the other man’s cock is dripping a steady stream of pre-come onto the bed. 

Starting an open dialogue about their sex life was, by far, one of the best decisions they’ve ever made as a couple. Because if they hadn’t, Ian wouldn’t have ever known how much Mickey likes being held down, how fucking turned on he gets when Ian uses his larger size against him like this, how there’s a feeling a safety that gets mixed up in there, too, and makes every single aspect of these moments so much sweeter. 

“Good boy,” Ian breathes in Mickey’s ear, making him shiver. “So fucking good for me, taking it like this. Gonna come soon, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, yes, please.” Mickey whimpers, trying to push himself up on his arms again, only to stop when Ian presses against him hard, and then bites down on his shoulder even harder. 

“Gonna have to let go and touch yourself.” Ian whispers, licking at the deep indents left by his teeth. 

Mickey’s shaking his head against the mattress, “Can’t,” he gasps, sounding almost pained, and incredibly desperate. “ _Ian_.” 

“Shh,” the redhead hushes again, not entirely surprised. Sometimes Mickey gets like this during sex – completely unwilling to touch himself, even when Ian tells him to. They’ve tried talking about it, but Mickey’s never really been able to explain it beyond, _“I don’t know, man, it just doesn’t feel right, and I can’t.”_ And since Ian’s not one to push his boyfriend on such matters, and because the reasons aren’t really important, he’d eventually let it go. 

He likes it, anyway; likes when Mickey gets so desperate he begs Ian to touch him. He loves taking care of Mickey like this, gets worked up at every moan and whimper, always tries to get his boyfriend to come first just so he can watch. He’s fucking addicted. 

“I gotchya.” He promises, moving one arm to balance himself on the mattress so he can fist Mickey’s cock with the other. “Wanna tie you up next time, Mick.” He says then, his own voice tight from trying not to come. “Lay you out and tie you up so you can’t move, fuck you so hard you’re begging me. Keep you on edge for as long as I want. Fuck, you’d look so hot like that. You’d love it, wouldn’t you?” 

Mickey doesn’t answer, not with words, but he comes hard just a few seconds later, thrusting into Ian’s grip and muffling his shout in the blanket as his hips jerk erratically. 

Feeling Mickey pulse around him is more than enough to get him there, and Ian’s coming less than a minute later, biting hard at his boyfriend’s shoulder again as he releases deep inside of him. 

Both of them shudder through the aftereffects of their orgasms, but Ian comes back to himself quicker, and slowly, gently, pulls out of Mickey. He sits back slightly and watches, enraptured, as his come drips out of the other man’s ass. Without giving it any conscious thought, caught up in the want to mark and claim, he reaches down and touches him there, using two fingers to rub at the mess, gently pushing at the rim of Mickey’s stretched out hole. 

The older man gasps lightly and then sighs, rocking into Ian’s hand like he just can’t help himself, like maybe he’s trying to get Ian’s fingers back inside of him despite how worn out and sensitive he is. “Fuck,” he whispers, and Ian can hear it in his tone that he’s still lost in that headspace of his where he needs to be told how good he is, and all the other nice, pretty things he never lets Ian say outside of the bedroom. 

Ian’s gut clenches with the fierce need to take care of him, just like it always does, and he loves it, loves Mickey like this. “So good. Did so fucking good.” He says, and it’s true, it’s so fucking true. “Such a good boy for me. Love you so much.” 

Ian tugs the blanket out from under them so there’s no wet spot, and then rearranges Mickey’s limbs gently until he’s lying flat against the mattress, sighing at the feeling of the cooler sheet against his skin. 

Ian lays down right next to him, their faces close enough to share air, and runs a hand along his back, dipping his fingers into Mickey’s ass on every other pass, making the other man shiver each time. 

“God, you’re gorgeous,” he breathes, and he doesn’t think it’s a word he’s ever used before, because Mickey lazily raises an eyebrow when he hears it, but Ian just smirks. “My gorgeous good boy.” 

Mickey takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, pressing his forehead against Ian’s and just basking in the praise Ian continues to doll out for a good long while, until his breath evens out and his skin starts to pimple with goosebumps. Ian reads the cue and flings an arm over Mickey’s waist, pulling the smaller man closer until they’re curled against each other, Mickey’s head against his shoulder and their limbs tangled together. One of Mickey’s hands is resting against his scar because that’s just something he does now, and Ian doesn’t question it. 

“Were you serious?” Mickey mutters a while later, words muffled against Ian’s skin. 

“Hmm?” The redhead asks, relaxed and hazy. 

“About the, y’know, tying me up?” Mickey elaborates, and Ian doesn’t need to see his face to know that his skin is flushed, and his eyes are cloudy with a mixture of want and uncertainty. 

Ian leans down and kisses the crown of Mickey’s head, pausing for a moment to bury his nose in the soft hair there. “Yeah.” He breathes, shivering slightly when Mickey kisses his chest a few times. “We-we can talk about it, I mean.” He corrects, clearing his throat, trying to focus. “But yeah – yes. That’s something I’d want. If you do.” 

Mickey doesn’t say anything, but he nods a few times, tickling Ian’s chin and cheek with his hair. It’s not an agreement, not yet, but it’s on the table now and Mickey clearly isn’t averse to the idea. And a few minutes later, when the brunette leans up for a kiss, Ian can’t help but notice the spark in his eyes, and the way his lips quirk up into a knowing grin. 

It amazes Ian sometimes, when he stops to think about it, that his feelings for Mickey haven’t diminished over the years. He knows he’ll always love this man, and that they’ll be together for a long time, maybe even forever, but he used to think that the more intense sensations – his stomach bottoming out every time Mickey smiles at him, the painful tightening in his chest whenever they’re alone together like this – would settle down eventually, fade into something a little more muted. But they haven’t, at least not yet, and Ian’s beginning to realize that they probably never will. 

Mickey’s _existence_ lights a fire in Ian’s soul, and he’s not sure he could live without that anymore. And even though he doesn’t say it out loud in as many words, he knows Mickey feels the same way about him. The two of them are imperfectly, beautifully, permanently intertwined. 

Mickey doesn’t _have_ Ian’s heart, he _is_ Ian’s heart. For better or worse. 

“I love you.” He says softly then, that ever-present fire roaring up fiercely. He kisses Mickey’s temple. “Can’t fucking breathe without you anymore, y’know that?” 

Mickey chuckles lightly against his skin. “You gotta stop watching rom-coms with my sister, man. It’s turning you into a chick.” 

Ian laughs, and feels his emotions simmering somewhat. “That’d be way worse for you, I think.” He says casually, gently thrusting his soft cock against Mickey’s hip. “Miss this if I actually turned into a chick, wouldn’t you?” He asks, using one hand to palm at Mickey’s ass. 

The shorter man grunts but doesn’t comment, playing like Ian’s movements aren’t affecting him at all. The redhead huffs his surrender a moment later, giving Mickey’s ass one last firm squeeze before moving his hands back up to his waist. 

Mickey hums and tilts his head, kissing Ian squarely, closed-mouthed. “Love you, too.” He whispers, once his head is buried back in Ian’s shoulder, where he feels safest. 

They spend the rest of the morning, and most of the afternoon, like that; in bed together. Mickey drifts here and there, sleeping off the last of his hangover, and Ian only leaves his side for long enough to grab the laptop from the living room before settling down next to him again. He fills out more job applications and looks into classes he might be able to take, careers that he might want to peruse, stopping whenever Mickey wakes up to fuck the older man to his heart’s content.

Maybe it won’t stay like this for long, it never really does, but right now their world is calm. And, as far as he’s concerned, there’s nothing better than that. 

***

As the months go on and her pregnancy progresses, Mandy relies heavily on Fiona for advice and support. There’s no one in their lives (besides V, but Mandy doesn’t really get along with her) who’s ever experienced pregnancy firsthand – the Milkovich mother being long deceased and Monica being a non-factor – but Fiona makes a pretty good secondhand source. She remembers all of Monica’s pregnancies, and had taken care of her through a lot of them. She goes with Mandy to doctor’s appointments – Mickey and Ian do, too, occasionally, but they’ve been told that having another woman there is different – tells her which prenatal vitamins to take, and buys her several books on pregnancy and early childhood care. 

Ian can tell his older sister already views Mandy’s baby as a part of their family, and that she’s legitimately excited to be a part of the kid’s life. Ian thinks it’s because Mandy’s baby will be one of the first Fiona’s ever known that she won’t be directly responsible for raising – she’ll get all of the cute stuff without any of the responsibility – and she deserves that. 

More than that, Fiona’s involvement irrevocably cements their two families together. What could have very easily stayed a facet of Ian’s life – born from his relationship with Mickey and separate from his siblings – becomes a conscious unity between all of them. 

_“It takes a village,”_ Fiona likes to tell them, always determinedly, usually with her hands on her hips. _“Anyone who says it doesn’t is either lying or rich.”_

Mandy seems to agree with the sentiment, because she has no qualms enlisting everyone’s help in preparing for the baby. Ian moves all of her things into Terry’s old room, and Iggy and Mickey set up Mandy’s to be a nursery – since Ian can’t smell fresh paint without getting sick, and Mandy isn’t supposed to while she’s pregnant, the two of them, along with Debbie, spend that day going to as many thrift shops as they can to search for cheap baby and maternity clothes while the Milkovich brothers paint their future niece or nephew’s room. 

“Are you going to find out the gender?” Debbie asks that day, almost as excited about the new baby as Fiona is. 

“Yeah,” Mandy nods, “at my doctor’s appointment Tuesday.” 

“You don’t wanna be surprised?” Debbie questions, tossing a few onesies with the ‘color of the day’ sales tags into their cart. 

Ian laughs lightly. “She’ll be just as surprised next week as she would’ve been the day he’s born, Debs.” 

“How are you so sure it’s a boy?” His little sister demands. 

“Uncle’s intuition.” Ian smirks. Honestly, he has no idea why he’s so positive that Mandy’s baby will be a boy, but he’d happily bet money on it. 

“Well, I hope you’re wrong.” Debbie declares. “We need more girls.” 

“As long as it’s healthy, I don’t really care.” Mandy states, squirming a little where she’s standing and looking around. 

“That’s so generic.” Debbie rolls her eyes. “All pregnant women say that.” 

“Because it’s usually true.” Ian comments off-handedly, focusing on Mandy. “You okay?” 

“Gotta puke.” She mumbles, and points towards the back of the store. “Bathroom.”

After she leaves them there, Debbie makes a face. “Being pregnant must suck.” She nods to where Mandy had been. “That’s like the third time she’s done that today.” 

Ian just hums. “There’s a reason men can’t give birth, that’s for sure.” 

Debbie laughs at his words, and then shakes her head. “I’m glad I didn’t get pregnant.” 

Ian eyes his little sister sharply. “I’m sorry, were you _going_ to?” 

“I wanted to.” Debbie shrugs. Her words are casual; way too casual, considering. “I lied to Derek about being on the pill, but nothing happened. Then Mandy got pregnant and we talked and I figured –”

“Wait, wait.” Ian hold his hand up, taking a deep breath. “You fucked your boyfriend without protection on _purpose_?” 

Debbie has the decency to look a little ashamed when she glances up at him. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” 

“That’s fucking stupid.” Ian says harshly, almost instantly regretting it when Debbie’s expression closes off. He takes a deep breath before speaking again, managing to make his next words come out a lot calmer. “Why would you wanna do that, Debs? You’re smart enough to graduate high school. Hell, to go to college.”

“So were you.” She snaps, clearly still hurt by his outburst. 

Ian feels her words like a punch to the gut. “I know.” He admits sadly, trying to push though his own emotions for her sake. “And I really wish I had.” 

She looks at him again, must see what her comment had done, and glances away guiltily. “Sorry.” She mumbles. “I didn’t mean it like that.” She doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, just stares unseeingly at a rack of cheap baby clothes. “I just figured if I had his baby Derek would…I dunno, always be with me. His family, too. They’re really nice. Normal, y’know? Haven’t you ever wanted to just be _normal_?” 

Ian instantly understands what his little sister had been feeling – maybe even still is feeling – because it hadn’t been all that long ago that he’d been exactly like her. He and Debbie have always been similar in the way they feel things, and Ian remembers that when he was her age, he would have done absolutely anything to be loved and accepted by someone, _anyone_ , less fucked up than his own family. 

“You remember that store I used to work at in high school? The Kash-N-Grab?” 

Debbie looks confused at the sudden topic change, but nods all the same. “Yeah.” She says slowly, then abruptly crosses her arms and narrows her gaze. “Why? Is that where you met Mickey? You gonna give me a speech about how finding the right person is worth the wait or something?” 

“No,” Ian laughs lightly. “I was gonna tell you that I used to fuck the guy who ran that place.” 

Debbie’s eyes go wide. “You were sleeping with _Kash_? He was, like, fifty.” 

“Thirty-five,” Ian corrects, “when it started between us.” 

“How old were you?” She asks, shock evident in her voice. “Didn’t you get that job when you were a freshman?” 

Ian nods. “The first time we fucked I was fourteen.”

Debbie’s eyes go wider still, and her mouth drops slightly, trying to absorb everything Ian’s sharing with her. After a few seconds, anger creeps into her expression as well. “That’s sick.” She spits. “He’s a pervert. Like that guy on the bus I saw jacking off.” 

Ian smiles a little at the memory of Mandy teaching his little sister how to use a baton in the immediate aftermath of that incident. “I wanted it, Debs.” He explains. “I wanted to be with him for all the same reasons you wanted to have a baby. He was normal, stable.”

“Did Fiona know?” She demands. 

Ian shakes his head. “Lip did, though.” He shares. “And he thought the same thing, y’know, that Kash was some kind of bad guy for what we were doing.” 

“He was.” Debbie insists stubbornly. “Matty and I never slept together because he said I was too young. I hated him for it, but he was right.” She says those words like maybe she’s truly believing them for the very first time. “Did _Mickey_ know?” 

Ian’s eyes narrow a little. “Yeah.” He says hesitantly, not sure where she’s going. “It, uh, it stopped between me and Kash after he shot Mickey, so it wasn’t long that…Why?” He cuts himself off mid-explanation, worried by the expression she’s wearing all of a sudden. 

“I’m disappointed that Mickey and his brothers never killed him, is all.” She shrugs casually. Ian chokes on air. “He doesn’t seem like the type to let something like that go. He even beat the shit out of Matty.” 

“That’s…” Ian exhales slowly. “That’s not the point, Debs. The point it is I _get_ it, okay? The way we grew up, all the shit Frank and Monica put us through…Look, I’m not discrediting that Fiona sacrificed a lot to raise us, I’m not, and you shouldn’t either,” he gives her a pointed look, and she lowers her gaze apologetically, “but she was young, and between DCFS taking us away as many times as they did, and what happened with Liam after Jimmy left, and all the shit _I_ pulled, I get that need for stability, okay? More than anyone else in the family, I get that.” 

“But having a baby at fifteen isn’t the way to get it, right?” She guesses. And she rolls her eyes, sure, but there’s genuine understanding in her tone, too. Ian counts it as a win. 

“Yeah.” He sighs. “You’re smarter than the rest of us, Debs. Always have been.” 

“Lip’s the genius.” She counters, but there’s a shadow of a smile trying to tug up on her face. 

“Lip’s _this_ close to getting kicked out of school because he’s been drinking his breakfast, lunch, and dinner lately.” Ian says sadly, thinking about his older brother and the way he’s been acting the past few months. “You’re a lot smarter than that, trust me.”

“I’m worried about him.” Debbie admits, fingering the bottom of her shirt and not looking at Ian. He’s sure now that Lip’s behavior is part of this whole downward spiral of hers. 

“We all are.” Ian sighs heavily. “But we’ve tried to help him, a lot of people have, and it’s on him now.” He explains, wondering if anyone has taken the time to do this for her yet. Debbie’s always been more mature than her years – less so with her behavior lately, but even that’s been on the grown-up scale of bad decision making – and it’s easy to forget that she’s not really that old, and that there are some things she just can’t see yet. “Trust me, Debs. I went through the same kind of shit, and no one could have talked me into getting help before I was ready. And everyone tried, you remember.” 

She nods once and bites her lip. “If Mickey had been here, when you were going through all that, would you have listened to him?” 

Ian takes a deep breath, wishing it was harder for him to answer that question than it is. “No.” He says simply. “And it probably would have torn us apart.” 

She looks up at him again, and her eyes are sad. “I’m glad he wasn’t then. He’s good for you.” She glances away. “I want someone like that, y’know? Someone who loves me as much as Mickey loves you.” 

Ian smiles without meaning to, he always does when he thinks about his boyfriend. His stomach flutters, and his fingers itch to pull out his phone and call the other man. It’s stupid that he misses him this much even though they’ve only been away from each other for a few hours, but Debbie’s words had struck a chord, reminded him how close he’d come to losing one of the most important things in his life. 

But this is about his sister, and he forces himself to focus on her. “You will, Debs. I promise you, you will.” He smirks. “Hell, even Fiona found Jimmy again.” 

“Yeah.” She shrugs, not entirely believing him. “I hope you’re right.” 

Ian knows there’s really nothing more he can say to convince her, so he just takes a step closer and slings an arm over her shoulders, tugging her closer to his side for a moment in a half-hug before pulling back, still with his arm around her, and leading them towards a different section of the store. “C’mon,” he encourages, “let’s see if we can find one of those hanging door bouncy-swing things for our nephew.” 

“Niece,” Debbie counters, poking him lightly in the stomach and smiling. “I say it’s gonna be a girl.” 

Ian grins widely. “Wanna put money on that?” 

***  
***

“Yo,” Mickey answers his phone on the fifth ring, holding it between his ear and his shoulder as he wipes more of the bright paint off his hands. “I really hope you’re right about this kid having a dick, because Mandy was dead fuckin’ wrong about this being a neutral color.” 

Ian laughs on the other end of the phoneline, and Mickey feels something in his gut flutter. It’s amazing to him that Ian can still fuck him up so easily. “It’s supposed be soothing or something. Comforting” 

“It’s blue.” Mickey deadpans.

“It’s turquoise.” 

“How is that not blue?” He asks, waving towards the wall even though Ian’s not even in the house. “I’m looking at it, man, it’s fucking blue.” 

Ian just laughs again. “How’s it going?” 

Mickey shakes his head, but lets it go, for now. “Fine, good.” He shrugs. “Almost done. Probably another couple hours to finish up and get the smell outta the house.”

Ian hums. “Maybe we’ll go over to Patsy’s when we’re done.” 

Mickey hears something in his boyfriend’s voice then, and makes his way out of the bedroom they’re painting, away from Iggy, and shuts the door of his own room behind him for privacy before he speaks again. “You okay, man?”

Ian huffs, but without seeing his face, Mickey can’t read the emotion behind it. “Yeah, why do you ask?” 

Mickey chews on his bottom lip. “Sound weird, is all.” 

“You worry too much.” Ian says, though this time Mickey can definitely hear the fake nonchalance he’s forcing out with his words. 

“Ian.” He says, half-warning and half-pleading. They’ve had a lot of talks since Ian came back about being honest with each other, and if the redhead isn’t holding up his end of the deal, if he’s lying to Mickey about something…well, that’s concerning. 

“It’s nothing.” Mickey hears him take a deep breath. “I just had a talk with Debbie about some shit.” He relents after a few seconds of silence. “Got me thinking. Nothing bad, I promise.” 

Mickey nods to himself. He believes Ian that the younger man doesn’t think it’s anything serious, and maybe it’s even not, but he also knows that his boyfriend isn’t always honest with himself about things that have the potential to fuck him up. There’s still a part of him that hates that his disease makes him react to certain things more intensely than he used to, and Mickey’s seen him ignore shit until it gets out of hand. 

At the same time, he doesn’t want to be the guy that pushes Ian like that. He’s got a shrink and a family that loves to talk nearly everything to death, and sometimes all he needs from Mickey is comfort and silence. It’s a fine line, and Mickey’s not about to try and walk it over the phone. 

“You guys still at the store?” He asks instead, going for casual, and he hears it when Ian exhales his relief. 

“Just finished up at Goodwill,” he says. “Debbie wants to head over to this Salvation Army on the Northside that’s apparently fucking huge.” He huffs tiredly. “They’re wearing me out, Mick.”

“Poor guy. That’s my job.” He tosses back, grinning when Ian chuckles happily. 

“You’re lack of sympathy is heartbreaking.” The redhead deadpans. Then, in a normal tone, “You want anything while we’re out doing all this? Don’t think I’ve ever actually seen you go shopping for anything besides beer, junk food, or bullets.” 

Mickey snorts. “I shop.” He counters. “Besides, don’t know if I trust you to pick out clothes for me.” 

“Why?” Ian asks innocently. “It’d just be booty shorts, crop tops, maybe a thong. Y’know, normal stuff.” 

The brunette laughs. “Don’t you fucking dare, man.” 

“Not even the shorts?” Ian presses, teasing. “You’ve got really nice legs, Mick.” 

“You’re a fucking dick.” He says around a smile. 

“You love me.” Ian counters, sounding cockily sure of himself. 

“Don’t mean I’m gonna wear fucking Daisy Dukes for your ass.” Mickey grumbles. 

“That’s disappointing.” Ian says with a small sigh, not disappointed at all. A beat of silence passes between them, comfortable even over the phone. Then, almost out of nowhere and more serious than he had been before, Ian blurts, “I do love you.” 

Mickey’s face scrunches, concerned and confused. “I know that, Ian.” He says softly, tone dipping unintentionally with comfort. “I love you, too, tough guy.” 

He hears Ian take a breath, maybe a little too deep, but his voice is closer to normal when he speaks again. “Mandy and Debbie are heading back, I gotta go. See you tonight.” 

“Yeah, of course.” He says, then, before the call disconnects, “Hey, Ian.” 

“Yeah?” 

“This.” He says, quietly even though no one else can hear him. 

He feels lighter, less nervous, when Ian answers him back without so much as a pause, “Us.” 

He takes another breath, forces himself not to worry. Ian doesn’t like it when he worries about him for no reason, and he doesn’t know for sure if there is one yet. “Could use some new long-sleeve shirts. You stretched out most of mine.” 

“Don’t pretend you don’t like seeing me in your clothes.” Ian counters, and Mickey can’t even deny it because he really, really does. Almost as much as Ian likes Mickey in his. 

“Not the point.” He mutters. “Buy me new shit.” 

“New used shit.” Ian corrects petulantly, laughing again. Mickey loves that sound. 

“Whatever, firecrotch.” He rolls his eyes. 

He’s still grinning like an idiot after he and Ian have hung up and he heads back into the nursery where Iggy is dutifully painting the last wall. His brother takes one glance at him and rolls his eyes. 

“What?” Mickey asks, catching the gesture. 

“You should see the fucking look on your face, man,” he says, not unkindly. “You’re so fucking dick-whipped.” 

Mickey flips him off but doesn’t deny it. There’s nothing to deny, not anymore; he and Ian are as out as they’re ever going to be on the Southside of Chicago, and everyone who cares about them gets to see it, how much they love each other. Once upon a time that sort of transparency would have scared Mickey shitless, would have made him run away from everyone, including Ian, but he finds, these days, that he doesn’t mind so much. Actually, if he’s being honest, he doesn’t mind at all.

He’s not really the kind of guy who sits around and thinks introspectively about his life and the decisions he’s made, but even so, he can’t help but admit that he’s glad their lives have worked out the way they have. Mandy’s baby, for instance, will never know a Mickey who hates himself for who he loves, and that, if nothing else, is worth a lot.

___________________________________________________

**Next Time:**

_“You’re all tangled up inside your head, and I don’t get that, Ian, I don’t. I don’t understand. I wish I did. But I can see shit you can’t, ‘cause I’m outside of it, y’know? Outside where you are. And you ain’t gonna stay like this. I know that, man. Know it like I know you. Because I know you. So just…just stop. Stop thinkin’ like this is forever. Because there ain’t no such thing as forever when you feel like this.”_

___________________________________________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sustained by a steady diet of comments and fictional universes <3


	15. Do You Got Room for One More Troubled Soul?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not realize how long this chapter was until I went to read through it before posting. So, yeah. Some things happen. And stuff. Please buckle your seatbelts and enjoy the next almost-10k words of roller-coastering excitement.

**\--XV—**

_Do You Got Room for One More Troubled Soul?_

***

Ian goes through a low spell around the beginning of Mandy’s third trimester. 

While they were first adjusting his meds, right after Ian came home from New York, Mickey got to witness what Fiona and the others had told him was a subdued version of bipolar mania – Ian would get up early after going to bed late, become obsessed with projects that made little sense to anyone else, and in general flutter around the house without sitting still. Mickey had dealt pretty well with all of that, because it had honestly just felt like an extreme version of the Ian he already knew. It had been a little scary, and a lot nerve wracking in certain places, but it had _fit_. 

The depression doesn’t fit. 

Nothing Mickey’s ever known about Ian fucking Gallagher has ever linked up with terms like _subdued_ or _listless_. The closest thing he can even think to compare it to is that time when they were younger, right after DCF had removed the Gallagher kids from their home, and Ian had come into the Kash-N-Grab all quiet and distracted. And even that had been nothing compared to the first week in March when the redhead had started acted nothing like himself at all. 

“I’m worried about him.” Mickey confesses to Mandy one night, the two of them in the living room together. Iggy’s off with some girl he’s been dating, or banging, or whatever, and Ian’s already in bed even though it’s only a little after nine. 

“I know.” Mandy says softly, nudging her knee against his. She’s got one hand on her ever-growing stomach – she almost always does these days – but her other reaches out and touches Mickey’s shoulder softly. “But we knew this could happen, right? Ups and downs, even on the meds. And, I know you don’t wanna hear this, but how he is right now is so much better than what it was like before.” 

Mickey snorts humorlessly. Fiona, Carl, and Debbie have been telling him the same thing. Selfishly, Mickey’s glad he’s never seen the worst-case-scenario, because he’s not sure he could handle Ian more withdrawn than he has been. At the same time, he wishes he _had_ seen it, because at least then maybe this _wouldn’t_ seem so bad. Maybe he could be like Mandy and the rest of the Gallaghers – concerned, but not panicked, because _it could be a lot worse_. 

Mickey downs the last of his beer in a few long gulps and then leans back, hands on his knees. “Think I’mma go to bed.” He says, not interested in talking about Ian anymore, not when he could _be_ with him instead. “You need help gettin’ up before I go?” 

Mandy glares at him. 

Mickey smirks. “Hey, not my fault you’re the size of a bloated elephant carcass.” 

“Bite me, dick-weed.” She snaps, then pauses thoughtfully and shrugs, “But, yeah, actually, I have to pee.” 

Mickey rolls his eyes, but obediently lends a hand, dragging Mandy to her feet with a huff. “Damn you’re gettin’ big.” She smacks his shoulder. He barely flinches. “And you don’t hit as hard anymore.” 

While Mandy waddles off to the bathroom, and then probably to bed herself – she has a good reason, at least, with the tiny human growing inside of her – Mickey heads to his and Ian’s room, quietly shutting the door behind him in case the redhead is already asleep. 

He’s not. Mickey can tell as soon as his eyes adjust to the darkness. Ian’s body is motionless under the covers, and his chest is rising and falling slowly – not out of tune with the rhythm of sleep – but Mickey just knows. He’s known Ian Gallagher for years, and reading his face, his body, his movements, it’s like a language only he can speak. 

“Hey,” he says softly, not because he needs to be quiet, but because the darkness and Ian’s stillness seem to call for it. “How ya doin’, tough guy?” 

Ian doesn’t say anything at first, just rustles around under the blanket until his arm is poking out of the side, his fingers curling slightly towards where the older man is standing. Mickey’s responding smile is small, but oh so very real. 

“Yeah?” He asks, gently teasing. 

“Mhm.” Ian hums, curling his arm back up onto the bed now that his point has been made. 

Mickey makes quick work of stripping out of his jeans and sweatshirt, leaving him in only a wife beater and boxers when he crawls into the bed next to his lover. 

It doesn’t take them long to settle down against each other, and while Ian usually loves flinging his obnoxiously large limbs over and around Mickey’s smaller frame, right now he stays curled into himself, only pressing against Mickey when the raven-haired man makes the first move. 

Mickey might not be as tall as Ian, or even as built since the fucker’s taken to working out every day of his goddamn life, but his own upper body strength isn’t for naught, and he uses every ounce of it now to pull Ian against him until the redhead is lying with head on Mickey’s shoulder, face buried in his chest, and his legs drawn up until they’re almost, but not quite, pressing into Mickey’s stomach. 

They lay like that for a long time, quiet but very much awake; Mickey’s hand carding rhythmically through Ian’s hair because the redhead’s always liked that, and he’d do anything, right now, to make the love of his life feel better. 

Mickey doesn’t know how long they stay lying together in bed like that, but he’s close to drifting off when Ian finally says something into the silence, too quiet for Mickey to catch. 

“What was that, mumbles?” He asks, affectionate because he knows Ian likes it when he gets like that, and because Mickey likes it, too. 

“Said, I’m sorry if I’m scaring you.” Ian repeats, clearer this time, though still not loud. “Wish I didn’t feel like this, y’know? Wish I could just…” 

“Hey, stop. Stop.” Mickey says firmly when Ian trails off, making sure to keep any trace of aggression or force out of his tone. Ian had never responded well to anger – or anything that sounded like anger – when he was manic, Mickey had learned that firsthand, and he has a feeling it would be a lot worse in this state. “As long as you’re here, everything’s okay.” 

Ian huffs a little, tickling Mickey’s skin with his breath. “Just don’t let me go, okay?” 

Mickey’s arms tighten around him, even though he knows that’s not what Ian had meant. “I won’t.” He promises. 

“This.” Ian whispers a second or two later, and Mickey responds without even thinking – because he doesn’t need to anymore. 

“Us.” 

Ian inhales deeply, and then releases it shakily. “This is us.” 

“Yeah.” Mickey agrees, refusing to be sad about it. “This is us. Better or worse, right?” 

Ian hums but doesn’t say anything. Mickey gets that it’s hard for him to talk when he’s like this – that there might be monologues clogging up his brain, but opening his mouth to voice them is almost too much effort to comprehend. 

“Just go to sleep, Ian.” He says, voice firm but kind, and very purposely not pleading. “You’ll feel better tomorrow.” 

“What if I don’t?” The redhead whispers fearfully, and god does Mickey hate that, the fear Ian harbors about himself and his disorder. 

“Then we’ll go to the doctor.” He responds, calm and factual, not for a second letting Ian hear that he’s scared, too. 

“What if it’s always like this?” He asks, not because he wants to hear what Mickey will say – testing him in some morbid game of _will you stay with me even if…_ – but because he’s genuinely terrified that he won’t get passed this. 

“Have I ever fucking lied to you, man?” Mickey asks, not harshly at all, but with an unwavering force that Ian, even in this state, can’t deny. “Have I ever lied to you? Even once?” 

Ian’s quiet for a few minutes, long ones that tick by like the death of galaxies. Eventually he shakes his head, just barely, against Mickey’s shoulder. “No.” 

“Then you gotta trust me, firecrotch.” He smiles a little at the old nickname, leaning down after he says it to kiss Ian’s fire-red hair. “Gotta trust that I know how this is gonna go.” He takes a deep breath. He’s never been great with words, but these ones are important. “You’re all tangled up inside your head, and I don’t get that, Ian, I don’t. I don’t understand. I wish I did. But I can see shit you can’t, ‘cause I’m outside of it, y’know? Outside where you are. And you ain’t gonna stay like this. I know that, man. Know it like I know you. _Because_ I know you. So just…just stop. Stop thinkin’ like this is forever. Because there ain’t no such thing as forever when you feel like this.” 

Ian sniffs, and Mickey wishes he could pull back, see if the other man is crying or hurting because of what he’d just said, but when he tries Ian just clings harder, refuses to let go, and Mickey figures maybe he’d done okay, said something good, because Ian isn’t pushing him away. 

He waits for a while, thinking that his boyfriend will say more – that he’ll argue, or apologize, or ask for something he needs – but Ian just stays silent, breathing quietly against him. 

After a while, Mickey sighs deeply. “You gonna go to sleep now?” 

“Yeah.” Ian croaks, voice too broken to decipher an emotion. “Yeah, I think I am.” 

Mickey leans down again, ghosting a gentle kiss across his lover’s forehead. “Good. That’s real good.” 

***

The next day Ian doesn’t get out of bed until a little after one in the afternoon, and only then because Mickey begs him to come out and eat lunch in the kitchen. Ian doesn’t manage more than three bites of the cheesy rice Mickey had made, but drinks two whole glasses of water, and offers Mickey a small smile before returning to bed. 

He gets up twice more between then and the time Mandy gets home from work to use the bathroom. 

Mickey doesn’t leave the house once. 

***

Two days later, Carl comes over after he’s done with his community service hours for the day. The younger Gallagher doesn’t try to coax his brother out of bed, but rather hops up on top of the covers next to him and spends nearly an hour creatively bitching (in an impressively upbeat manner) about being on a court-mandated cleanup crew. 

Mickey honestly doesn’t think Ian’s listening to a word of Carl’s yammering – can’t even tell for sure if he’s awake from the spot in the doorway he’s claimed in order to watch their interactions – but eventually, right after Carl tells a story about one of the other kids he’s been working along side for the past several months, Ian starts talking. 

Carl and Mickey had both known that Lip had once been forced to complete a handful of community service hours himself when he and Ian had been younger, but neither had been fully aware of the story behind them. Not until Ian tells it that afternoon – how he and Lip had broken into some university science lab and stolen a laser in order to build a robot. Mandy had been part of that, too, Mickey and Carl learn together. The three of them had spent a whole summer trying to stick it to some rich college douchebags. 

And eventually they had. 

Carl spends another hour after that asking for details, and when Mandy eventually gets home from work, she and Mickey join them in the bedroom. She starts the story from the very beginning – Lip’s non-sanctioned fight club – and pretends to forget details every few minutes so Ian will have to fill in the blanks. 

“Oh, wow,” Mandy interrupts herself right in the middle of the retelling of their final robot battle. They all glance at her. “He _likes_ this story.” 

Mickey shoots her a look. It’s not like her to talk about Ian as if he’s not there.

“No,” she shakes her head, understanding his anger and dismissing it in the same breath. “Feel this.” 

But it’s Ian’s hand she grabs first. She puts it on the side of her belly, eyes still wide with wonderment. 

Ian sits up without anyone having to ask him to. 

“Wow,” the redhead breathes, leaving his hand on her stomach even when she moves her own away. “Has he ever kicked like that before?” 

“Not like that.” Mandy says. And maybe she’s lying, or exaggerating at the very least, but Mickey’s curiosity gets the better of him and he places a hand right next to Ian’s on his sister’s stomach. 

It’s not the first time he’s felt his nephew kick, but he doesn’t exactly make it a habit of feeling up his sister’s pregnant stomach. Even so, it’s not hard to tell that _something’s_ got the ever-growing infant excited. 

“It’s ‘cause he knows his family is gonna be badass.” Carl suggests with a grin, once he finally gives in and touches Mandy’s abdomen, too. 

“I think he likes that we’re all here,” Ian says softly, glancing between the three of them but settling on Mickey, his eyes crinkling with such genuine fondness that the older man manages to forget, for a moment, that there’s anything wrong in the world at all. “Together.”

***

On Monday, Mickey has to go to the bar for a few hours in the afternoon. 

Kev’s been impressively understanding about Mickey’s situation at home – he’s bailed on work every day for the past week and a half, and all Kev’s said to him about it is, “Of course you have to be there, man, don’t fucking worry about it.” 

But on Monday, he calls Mickey in a panic because the delivery guy has showed up two weeks early with some new contract he wants signed on the spot and Kev isn’t so great when it comes to, well, _reading_ , especially reading things with a shit ton of numbers and legal phrases, and if Mickey would come down and “just go over it real quick, so I know I’m not signing the bar away or anything, y’know? V’s outta town for the day or I’d get her to. I mean, if you can’t, I get that,” he forces a nervous laugh, “I could call…fuck. Fiona, maybe. Or Debbie. Debbie’s always been smart.” 

So even though Mickey really doesn’t want to, and feels nervous as fuck about it, he throws on a clean t-shirt and makes to leave the house for the first time in almost two weeks. Because it’ll screw them all over in the long run if Kev accidently sells The Alibi to a gang of Russian Mobsters or something. 

“I won’t be gone long.” He whispers to Ian before he goes, bending over to kiss his temple gently. “And Iggy’ll be in the living room, alright? Just shout if you need anything.” 

“I’m fine,” Ian grumbles, pulling the covers a little farther over his head and burrowing into the pillow. “Don’t worry.” 

Only Mickey does worry. He worries from the moment he steps outside the house that even though he’s given Iggy _very explicit_ instructions to check on Ian every ten minutes and call him if _anything, anything at all_ seems out of the ordinary, that something will go wrong while he’s gone. 

Despite the progress they’ve been making, Ian’s still very much in a depressive state right now. And Mickey’s read all about the things that can happen during one of those. 

Despite his fear, Mickey has to admit that it’s actually nice to be out of the house for a while. The fresh air (as bitingly cold as it is) feels good against his skin, and it’s refreshing to spend more than ten seconds talking about something other than the looming panic that his boyfriend’s going to wind up in the hospital if he doesn’t start getting out of bed more than once a day for twenty minutes tops. 

Of course, having those thoughts make him feel guilty as fuck. He knows they shouldn’t. He knows he’d much rather be with Ian right now, that he’d only left the house because he’d had to, and that he’s not a terrible person for enjoying the reprieve. 

Fiona and Mandy both have been telling him that he needs to take a break. That, as much as he might want to, he actually _can’t_ be there for Ian twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, without driving himself insane. 

Mickey’s been striving to prove them wrong. 

The contract their vendor wants Kev to sign is actually pretty boiler plate, but Mickey puts in the extra effort to convince the guy to lower their bulk rate by 3%. He’d been shooting for 1.5%, initially, but some of his frustration and helplessness _may_ have bled over a little into their conversation. And Mickey _might_ have flashed his tattoos in the guy’s general direction, and had _maybe_ dropped Colin’s name accidently-on-purpose. 

Terry had always hated Colin for being more feared around the neighborhood than Terry himself. It hadn’t taken Mickey’s older brother more than fifteen years of being alive and watching their father conduct business to figure out that a well-placed feral smile, or a single-word rebuke while pointedly sharpening a knife, could strike more fear into the hearts of the easily fearful than a thousand angrily screamed words put together. 

Colin’s façade had been that of a cold and calculating psychopath, all the way. Which Mickey, and Mandy especially, had always found particularly amusing because Colin, in reality, had been anything but. Only his siblings got to see that, though. Terry never saw his son for who he really was – none of sons, actually, and certainly not his daughter. But Colin was the only one he’d ever been jealous of. Or afraid of. 

That’s why Terry had had him on lookout duty the day they’d all gotten busted down south. Usually that roll fell to Mickey or Iggy – seniority and all that – but the men who had turned out to be undercover cops, they’d been new buyers, and Terry wasn’t about to let his son show him up during their first exchange. 

Mickey hadn’t been surprised when Colin had taken off with that girl he’d knocked up. Wouldn’t have even been surprised to find out that he’d knocked her up on purpose, even. Mickey’s not the only person who had been set free the day Terry had been sentenced to twenty-five years in prison, only Colin never would have maintained that freedom if he’d come back to Chicago like Mickey had. He would have gotten sucked back into the life – Terry’s life – so fucking fast. 

And maybe that’s exactly what he’s doing in whatever desert-city in mid-America that he’d followed his knocked up farmgirl out to. Maybe he’d reverted back to a life of crime the second life with a baby and a wife had gotten dull. Colin’s older than Mickey or Iggy, has more years of Terry’s life under his belt, and probably doesn’t know another way to live. 

Maybe he hadn’t, though. Maybe that girl, whoever she is, has been good for him. Good for him like Ian’s good for Mickey. Like Mickey and Mandy and Iggy are good for each other now. Like Fiona’s good for all of them. 

Maybe Colin had gotten lucky, too. 

“You know, he’s gonna be fine.” 

Kev’s words startle Mickey, because there’s no way the other man could know what he’d been thinking about just now, and yet his comment is infused with oddly well-timed reassurance. 

“The fuck you talking about?” Mickey snaps. 

The vendor guy is gone – off to draft up a new contract that he’ll bring back in a day or two for Kev to sign, lower price and all – and the two of them are alone in the bar surrounded by boxes of unopened liquor. Mickey knows he should go home now that the crisis is over and Kev doesn’t need him here anymore, but he finds himself not moving. 

Mandy and Fiona have been telling him for days that he needs to take a break. He’s been doing his best to prove them wrong, but maybe he shouldn’t be. After all, if there’s one thing that Mickey’s learned about his newly jumbled together family so far, it’s that the two of them are usually right about shit like this. 

“Ian.” Kev says with an easy shrug, slicing a knife through the tape on one of the boxes. His tone takes on an all-knowing quality that’s got Mickey raising a disbelieving eyebrow and listening intently at the same time. “All the crazy bullshit in his head,” he waves the blade of the knife he’s holding in a circle around his temple for effect, “I don’t know if you ever met Monica –”

“I haven’t.” Mickey snaps. At this point, after everything that’s happened, he’s not sure he wants to. At the same time, he’s almost eager to. It’s a struggle between wanting to know more about Ian and not being sure that he wouldn’t kick the bitch’s ass – woman or no – the second he saw her. 

“Ah, I know that look,” this time he points the knife in his hand at Mickey, nodding sagely even as Mickey bats at his hand and the weapon annoyedly. “That’s the ‘I wanna hate Monica Gallagher because I know what a piece of work she is’ look.” Kev clucks his tongue and shakes his head a little. “Thing is, she’s a hard lady to hate.” 

“I’m doin’ just fine.” Mickey points out with a scowl, angrily ripping the tape off a nearby box of his own, not bothering with a knife or any sort of precision. 

“Yeah, because you’ve never met her.” Kev says mildly. “It’s hard to explain, but Monica’s got this thing, this – this way of acting…I don’t even know. Sincere, I guess. Only it’s not an act. Or if it is, I could never tell.” 

Mickey hums, but doesn’t say anything. This is the first time he’s ever heard someone who isn’t a Gallagher talk about Monica, and he’s admittedly curious. 

“Truth is, if she strolled back into town tomorrow, every single one of those kids, and even Fiona, would let her back into their lives.” Kev doesn’t sound the least bit doubtful about that proclamation, and it makes Mickey’s stomach twist up in knots, because he knows the other man is right. Ian’s told him as much more than once. “And I’d say it’s ‘cause she’s their mom or whatever, but I see other people do it, too. Every time.” He chuckles lightly, but not with very much humor. “Hell, man, even Frank. I hate to give Frank credit for anything, but you gotta admit that the guy has some pretty solid survival instincts going for him. But he’s got the same blind spot for Monica as the rest of them. Fuck, maybe even worse.” 

Mickey waits for a few seconds, a minute, two, but Kev doesn’t say anything else. He expression is pulled tight and he seems wholly focused, all of a sudden, on stocking the shelves behind the bar. 

“Was there a fucking point to any of that?” Mickey demands loudly, losing his temper. 

Kev startles at the outburst, but it does seem to shake him out of whatever contemplative trip he’d been taking. “Uh, yeah, sorry.” He coughs slightly, then clears his throat. “I guess I was just thinking that Monica woulda been a lot better off in the long run if Frank were more like you.” 

Mickey double-takes. “What?” 

Kev shrugs. “They knew each other when they were younger, y’know? Frank and Monica did. Not before Monica…” he waves his hand vaguely, and Mickey get that he’s trying to say _had her first bipolar episode_. “But still, they were young. It was before my time, but I’ve heard a lot of the stories. And I watched what happened to Ian the first time…” he does that little wave again, “and then I saw how he was after you guys brought him back and… I dunno, man. I’m not a fucking _expert_ in crazy brain shit, but the way I saw it play out…seemed to me like you made a pretty big fucking difference.” 

Mickey scowls and looks away, not entirely sure if he’s comfortable with Kev’s implication that he’s _that_ good of a person. “Ian came home on his own. That ain’t on me.” 

“It’s kinda on you.” Kev counters, grinning in the face of Mickey’s continuous glaring. “Now, I’m not saying you _fixed_ him, even I know it doesn’t work like that, I’m just saying…it makes a difference, that you gave him something to come home to that wasn’t as batshit crazy as what he was coming back from.” 

Mickey looks away, suddenly feeling as though there’s a balloon in his chest being inflated far too quickly. “That’s some gay ass shit.” He croaks. 

Kev just chuckles. “I’d be a better gay dude than you.” He scoffs. “Maybe not better than Ian, but definitely you. If I didn’t, y’know, love pussy so much.” 

Mickey leaves the bar not long after that. When he gets home, he’s surprised to find that Iggy has coaxed Ian out into the living room, and that they’ve both got a plate of enchiladas on their laps. Mickey mouths ‘thank you’ to his brother while Ian’s not looking. The older boy just shrugs like it’s no big deal, putting his feet up on the coffee table and shoving food into his face as he watches some procedural cop drama rerun. 

Ian doesn’t comment when Mickey sits down next to him on the couch, but the redhead does lean against him as soon as he’s there. He settles his own plate on Mickey’s lap, and they both pick at it throughout the evening. 

Ian stays out of bed for almost three hours that night. 

Mickey smiles into the side of his neck right after placing a small kiss there. Ian hums at the touch and then reaches out, wraps his hand around Mickey’s ankle and squeezes firmly. “Thank you.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “You don’t gotta –”

“Mick.” Ian interrupts softly, licking his lips once he’s got the older man’s attention. “Thank you.” 

Mickey takes a deep breath and considers for the first time that maybe Kev isn’t totally wrong about every single thing he says. “You’re welcome.” 

***

Four days later, Debbie convinces Ian to go on a walk around the block with her. When they get back, Ian stays in the living room with Mickey watching Double Impact and eating almost a whole package of Mandy’s Oreos.

Three days after that, Fiona comes over with Liam and spends almost two hours in the kitchen with Ian, baking cookies for the youngest Gallagher’s school…something or another event to which he’s supposed to bring cookies. Honestly, Mickey doesn’t catch the reason – wouldn’t be surprised if Fiona had made it up – but Ian stays out there all afternoon and even volunteers to help her carry the finished products home.

***

When it’s all said and done, Ian comes back to himself one day at a time. 

At first Mickey had, unrealistically, been expecting it to happen all at once. The depression had swept in almost overnight, weighing Ian down like a lead blanket with no warning at all, and Mickey had been expecting the symptoms to disappear just as quick. 

Their shrink – Ian’s shrink, technically, but Mickey goes with him so often that it basically counts as a two-for-one anyway – tells them that it doesn’t work that way. That depressive episodes, just like manic ones, fade in a manner not dissimilar to viral illnesses. Symptoms lessen a little bit at a time until they’re gone, but you can feel the aftereffects for up to weeks until you’re back at a hundred percent. 

And that’s exactly how it had happened. Slowly, and not without a lot of struggle. 

Dr. Ramsey is actually impressed with how they’d handled it – Ian’s first lapse since the meds had evened out – though they’ve been instructed to schedule an emergency visit next time, even if it doesn’t necessarily feel like an emergency. Any major shift in mood is reason enough to come in. 

Ian nods and smiles in a totally fake kind of way when he hears that, like he already knows he’s not going to follow through when – because it’s always _when_ , never _if_ – it happens again. Which is exactly why Mickey tags along to his boyfriend’s shrink so often: sometimes he’s better at taking care of Ian than Ian is at taking care of himself, and he’ll follow any instruction doled out by the person medically responsible for Ian’s well-being. Mickey is, after all, the person _actually_ responsible for Ian’s well-being for the rest of their lives. 

***

It’s late-April by the time Ian feels totally like himself again. And Mickey believes him when he says that, because Ian doesn’t lie about his disorder. It’s too dangerous, they’d both decided early on, and Ian had promised him that, as long as he could, he’d tell Mickey the truth, always, about how he was feeling. 

And how he feels now is _better_. Like he’s risen from the ashes of something he had honestly believed would keep him down forever – even though Mickey had known it wouldn’t – and it’s amazing. Like waking up after a nightmare to find that, no, the world isn’t that scary after all. 

As hard as it had been to see him struggle through that, Mickey knows that he’d do it a thousand times over, if it means Ian, _his_ Ian, lying beside him in bed, happy and himself again.

This is the Ian _fucking_ Gallagher Mickey’s always known and loved. 

“Hey, what do you think our anniversary is?”

Mickey blinks a few times, glancing over at the redhead. Ian had just spent the better part of an hour teasing, playing with, and rimming Mickey’s ass; an apology, in small part, for the past few weeks they’d gone without sex of any kind, but they’d both needed it, to feel each other like that again.

The cumulation of their efforts had been a mind-melting orgasm on Mickey’s part – accompanied by Ian shooting his own load all over Mickey’s back (fucking possessive bastard), which he’s still sticky with – and now the redhead wants to talk about domestic shit? He can barely remember his fucking _name_ right now. 

When he opens his mouth, he means to say all of that, he really does, but what comes out instead is a breathy, “Huh?” 

Ian’s staring up at the ceiling, one of his hands absently tracing patterns on Mickey’s thigh. “I mean, most couples have anniversaries, right? Like, the day they met, or the day they started dating, or something. I was just wondering, what do you think ours is?” 

“I don’t fucking know, man.” Mickey huffs tiredly, closing his eyes. “Does it matter?” 

“I guess not really.” He feels Ian shrug. “I just mean, it can’t be the day we met, because technically we’ve known each other since we were little kids, even though we never really talked before we started fucking.” 

Mickey groans to himself and rolls over, shoving his face in Ian’s chest and flinging an arm over his waist – determined to be comfortable, at least, if Ian’s going to insist on having this conversation. The redhead complies to the wordless demand and wraps his own arm around Mickey’s shoulders, using his body to essentially block Mickey off from everything else. He strokes a hand through the brunette’s hair, and even if Mickey’s eyes weren’t closed, he wouldn’t be able to see anything except Ian’s skin. 

They never talk about how much he likes to be held like this – never call is cuddling or any pussy fucking thing like that – but anytime Mickey wants to, craves it for whatever reason, Ian will happily comply. The redhead has his moments, too, without doubt, but Mickey knows he initiates it more, _needs_ it more. He’s not even sure why. Part of his whole thing, he guesses, a bleed-over from the shit he likes during sex. Or maybe it’s because he never got it as a kid, at least not after his mom had died. Right now, he thinks it’s probably at least in part about needing to feel Ian close to him, real and solid, wholly himself again. Who the fuck knows. Point is, he likes it, and Ian never gives him shit about it. 

“And we didn’t _technically_ start dating ‘til I came back from New York,” Ian continues, dipping briefly to kiss Mickey’s temple. Mickey huffs a low sound of irritation at the gesture, which he doesn’t really mean, and Ian knows it. The redhead responds by licking a long stripe across his forehead. Mickey balks, immediately rubbing against Ian’s shoulder while the younger man laughs.

“Fucker,” Mickey grumbles, but doesn’t make a single effort to move away. 

“But we were together way before that,” Ian keeps talking, totally ignoring Mickey’s only half-fake annoyance. “Even if we weren’t _together_.” He pauses. “Plus, I can’t remember when the first time we fucked actually was. I mean, I _remember_.” He corrects quickly. “I remember coming into your room with a crowbar and everything that happened after, but I couldn’t tell you the date or anything. I mean, could you? How do people remember shit like that?”

“I think it was in October.” Mickey contributes, finally, to Ian incessant babbling. 

“Maybe.” The redhead agrees, tugging Mickey closer to him. “But then you went to juvie a couple times, and all that other shit, so even if we had a clock, it stopped for a while.” 

Mickey sighs deeply, knowing from past experience that once Ian gets hung up on something like this, there’s absolutely no talking him out of being obsessed with it, not until he deems the issue well and truly resolved. It’s usually easier to just work with him. “Why don’t you pick a date, any date you want, and I’ll just go with it, okay?” 

Ian kisses his temple again. Mickey doesn’t fight it. “That’s sweet.” He says. “But it’d be cheating. Plus, how do we count the years, y’know?” 

“Four years.” Mickey says, feeling absolute conviction about this aspect of their relationship. He could give a shit about the nuts and bolts of this-happened-on that-day and that happened one month but not another, all that _whatever_ bullshit. But the years mean something. 

Ian’s quiet for a few seconds, probably recognizing that Mickey feels strongly about this. “Yeah?” He asks eventually, voice low. 

“Four years.” Mickey repeats, sighing against Ian’s skin. “On-and-off, maybe, but four years.” 

“Okay,” he says after a beat, nuzzling against the side of Mickey’s head, taking a deep breath like the smell of him is comforting. He’s calmer now than he had been minutes ago, settling down at Mickey’s declaration. “Four years.” 

***

Mandy goes into labor early. 

Like, a fucking _month_ early, and it scares the absolute shit out of Mickey. 

“Don’t panic.” Ian tells him, soothing in the face of what, Mickey feels at least, is a verified panic-inducing situation. “Mandy’s young. It’s not uncommon for women who are young to go into labor early the first time.” 

“You’re making that up.” Mickey accuses. He doesn’t really think Ian is lying to him, he’s just scared. “Why the fuck would you even know that?”

“Because I read about it.” Ian rolls his eyes, so calm that it’s pissing Mickey off even as he continues to cling to it. 

Mandy – who had insisted on working until she absolutely couldn’t anymore – had been driven to the hospital by a co-worker when her contractions had clocked in at six minutes apart. That’s according to Ian, at least. Mickey’s not even entirely sure what a contraction _is_ , besides the thing doctors measure to tell how close a woman is to giving birth. There’s something about centimeters, too – he remembers that from an old episode of _Friends_ he’d seen once. 

“Are we gonna take the L?” Mickey asks dumbly, totally lost as soon as he and Ian step outside the door of The Alibi – Kev shouting a jolly _“good luck”_ after them – because he doesn’t know any fucking thing about this.

“I ordered an Uber.” Ian says, still absurdly calm. “Should be here in…” he pulls out his phone, presses the button on the side to light up the screen, reads something, and then says, “under three minutes.”

“Great.” Mickey declares, not really hearing himself as he rubs his hands together. “It was warm this morning, right? Why didn’t I bring a jacket? It’s fucking freezing.” 

“Want mine?” Ian offers, quirking an eyebrow at Mickey’s twitchy movements. 

“No.” The brunette snaps. “Fuck, why isn’t it warm yet? It’s May, right?” 

“Almost.” Ian shrugs. 

Mickey looks up and down the street in front of them, trying to spot a car that might be an Uber driver. A Prius. He’s taken four Ubers in his whole life and three of them had been Priuses. The fourth had been a BMW that he’d almost refused to get in. He fucking hates people who drive Beamers, even if they are broke enough to be moonlighting as ghetto-taxis. 

“Did I ever tell you I was there when Monica had Debbie, Carl, and Liam?” Ian asks casually, nudging Mickey’s shoulder with his own and smiling a little when the brunette dutifully glances over at him. 

“Yeah?” He asks, not really sure what more he’s supposed to say to that, not sure what he wants to know, besides that everything is going to be okay. 

“Yeah.” The redhead nods, sounding wholly at ease. “I don’t remember much about Debbie, ‘cause Fiona made me and Lip stay upstairs. Liam was the easiest; Monica was high as shit and barely even screamed. But Carl, he was a fucking nightmare. Came out upside down or crooked or something. Frank kept saying he looked like an octopus. Thought he had three arms for a while.” 

That makes Mickey chuckle a little. Then, something occurs to him. “Debbie was born at your house?” 

“We all were.” Ian nods. “Well, Frank says we all were. I never got verified proof about me and Lip and Fiona, but the kids definitely were. Carl right on the kitchen table.” 

“The table you guys _eat_ at?” Mickey’s eyebrows find his hairline. 

“I mean, Fiona cleaned it.” Ian shrugs, like watching your younger siblings get born on the same spot you routinely eat waffles is just par for the fucking course. And apparently, for the Gallaghers, it is. “I’m just saying, if _Monica_ can pop out six healthy kids at our house, I wouldn’t be too worried about Mandy having one in a hospital.” 

Mickey knows that Ian’s words make sense, that in reality there’s nothing to be afraid about. Mandy’s been healthy throughout her pregnancy – they’d even kept up the habit of not smoking in the house – and every one of her checkups had confirmed the baby’s wellbeing, but there’s still something about the situation, the reality of his baby sister having a baby, that’s keeping him on edge. 

Their Uber driver pulls up a minute and a half later in a dark blue Buick. Mickey all but bolts to the backdoor. 

“Rush University Medical Center.” Ian tells the driver as he gets in next to Mickey. The brunette realizes belatedly that he hadn’t even known where they were going. 

“I’ll give you a fat fucking tip if you speed.” He adds, as the driver – some older, foreign dude – searches the location on his GPS. 

“You’re not bleeding, are you?” He asks, eyeing the both of them warily in the rearview mirror. “Extra charge for blood stains.” 

“No,” Ian says quickly, before Mickey can snap at him. “His sister’s having a baby.” He looks over and noticeably bites back a grin. “He’s a little…nervous.” 

“Ah,” the driver says, face lighting up. “Baby is happy news. No reason for nervous.” 

After that the guy, thankfully, starts driving. “Your sister,” he says as he merges into traffic, because for some fucking reason they always feel the need to make small talk, “it is her first baby, no?” 

“Yeah, it is.” Ian answers, because Ian always fields shit like this – pointless, inane chitchat. It works out that Ian is good at, and often times enjoys, making idle talk with strangers, because Mickey has always mostly hated it, and being together means that he gets to pawn that off on his boyfriend more often than not. 

“Babies are wonderful,” the driver says with a wide, beaming smile. He’s probably got a whole mob of them at home. “There will be much screaming in the beginning, though, unless your sister is very lucky. My son, he was easy baby. Rarely cried. Slept through the night almost always. My daughters, not as much. But still, blessings.” 

“My youngest brother was like that, easy.” Ian shares, “My other brother and sister were handfuls.” 

“Ah, so you know babies already.” The driver sounds unduly happy about it, for some reason. “No need for nervous.” 

“I’m not, really,” he says with a small shrug and a glance at Mickey. 

“No little ones in your home then?” The driver asks Mickey, chuckling lightly. “Brand new thing?” 

“Yup.” He says shortly, keeping his gaze focused out the window. 

“You know,” the driver says thoughtfully, “three thousand babies are born every hour. I snap my fingers, boom, baby born. Is mundane miracle, they say.” 

“See?” Ian nudges him. “Mundane.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. 

Ian and the driver talk for the rest of the trip – eleven and a half very long minutes – about diapers, and whether or not Mandy’s going to breastfeed, and something called swaddling (what the _fuck_?) until they finally pull into the drop-off parking section at Rush. 

Mickey shoves a twenty-dollar bill in the guy’s hand – because that drive should have taken twice the time it had, the guy having held up his end of the deal with the speeding – and gets out without saying another word. Ian exchanges polite goodbyes but follows Mickey quickly enough into the building. 

Mandy’s on the fourth floor, and the nurse at reception lets them go up without blinking – they fib a little, telling her that they’re both Mandy’s brothers, but hey, whatever works, right? 

When they get to the room, Mandy’s leaning back against a collection of pillows on the bed, reading a magazine. She looks up as soon as they come in. “Hey,” she greets them.

Mickey’s not sure what he’d been expecting, but her casual attitude and fleeting grin really hadn’t made the list. “Uh,” he sniffs a little, brushing his thumb against his nose. “Hey. How’s it…y’know. How’s it going?” 

Mandy rolls her eyes. Ian takes his jacket off and tosses it on a nearby chair, clearly getting ready to hunker down here for a while. 

“Fine for now.” Mandy shrugs. “Doctor says I should be able to get painkillers soon. My contractions are pretty close together, maybe another hour before –” 

Only then she cuts herself off with a sharp gasp, curling in around herself, around her stomach, in what’s very obviously quite a lot of pain. “Ah, shit,” she hisses, blindly grabbing at the blankets in front of her and balling them in her fists so tight her knuckles go white. 

Mickey’s whole body goes rigid, instinctively getting ready to fight someone. Mandy’s in pain, you damn well better believe that someone is going to pay for it. Only, there’s no one here to fight. The only person causing this is the little human inside of her trying desperately to get out – and it’s not like Mickey can beat up a goddamn _fetus_. Baby. Whatever. 

A feeling of utter uselessness settles heavily onto his shoulders as he watches Ian pull up a chair next to Mandy’s bed and take one of her clenching hands in his own. He says all of this shit about breathing, even mimics it with her until she calms down. 

“I, uh,” he swallows thickly once that thing, the pain-causing thing, seems to have passed. “I’m gonna go get a, uh, a drink. Or something. You wanna drink?”

“Told you this was gonna freak him out.” Mandy says, talking to Ian even though her gaze is on the ceiling, head still thrown back with her erratic breathing. “Shoulda just come by after the baby was born.” 

“He wanted to be here.” Ian says with a shrug, looking over his shoulder at Mickey with a wide grin, almost like he’s proud. 

“It’s my nephew, man,” Mickey says plainly, shrugging a little. 

The silence between them remains heavy with meaning. He’s not entirely sure how they got here, the three of them in this hospital together, Mandy on the cusp of bringing another living, breathing, human being into the world, knowing that whoever this kid is, whoever he ends up being, it’s going to be on them. Him and Ian, Mandy, Iggy – even the family Gallagher to some extent – are going to be responsible for a whole other person. It’s terrifying. Doesn’t even matter that he and Ian aren’t directly responsible, that Ian isn’t even technically related to the kid – it’s still going to be a part of them. Mandy’s baby is going to be all of theirs. 

Ian and Fiona have been telling him that for months now, and he really thought he’d understood, but he hadn’t. Not even kind of. 

“I’m gonna go get a drink.” He repeats his earlier words, only this time he actually leaves, closes the hospital door behind him right as Mandy starts groaning in pain again. 

***  
***

“Think I scared him.” Mandy says with a small grin, sweating and tired after her last contraction, but still aware enough to mock her brother. 

Ian counts it as a win. “I tried telling him he probably wouldn’t wanna see this part.” He shrugs, still smiling a little because it means a lot that Mickey had wanted to be here, even if he had ducked out pretty quick. “He’ll find Iggy somewhere downstairs and they’ll hang out until you pop this little bugger out.” 

“You’re not gonna leave?” Mandy asks, and he knows she means for it to come out casual, like she wouldn’t care, one way or another, but she’s tired and sweaty and, despite all of her bravado, very much in pain. It makes it easier for Ian to see the truth. 

“’Course not.” He effects his tone with the same sort of ease she’d been shooting for, only he manages to pull it off – because he means it. 

“Is Fiona coming?” Mandy asks, this time almost openly desperate. 

“Yeah, yeah she’s on her way.” Ian promises. “Jimmy texted. They got stuck in traffic downtown, but they should be here soon.” 

“Okay,” she breathes again, easier this time. “Okay, good.” 

***

The birth goes absolutely perfect. 

Ian’s there for the whole thing, along with Fiona. Mickey comes back right before the doctor wheels her off into the delivery room – along with Iggy, whom he’d, as predicted, found downstairs at some point while he’d been hiding – but Mandy decides that having her big brothers watch her deliver a baby is a little too much, and gives them an out, which they both take gratefully. 

Ian doesn’t mind watching it. It’s a little different from what he remembers about Carl and Liam – probably because he’s older now, and being in an actual hospital changes the scenery somewhat – but the screaming, pleading, crying, and mess of fluids is all the same. 

Mandy’s a champ – pushing at all the right moments and never once giving up, no matter how tired she gets. And Fiona’s at her side throughout – chanting words of encouragement. It takes a few hours, all said and done, but the doctors say it had been a good one, an easy one, and that Mandy is lucky. 

Ian gets to cut the cord. 

Fiona chuckles a little at the face he makes while he’s doing it. “Nothing,” she shakes her head when he looks over at her, eyebrows quirked. “Just reminds me of, uh,” she glances at the doctors and nurses all around them, “Aunt Ginger’s toe.” 

Ian snorts, appreciating his big sister’s totally inappropriate sense of humor. 

Ian’s also the first person, after Mandy, to hold the baby. 

It’s different than anything he’s ever felt before. Radically different, for a lot of reasons that aren’t that hard to figure out, than holding any of his younger siblings right after they were born. 

“Hey, little guy,” he whispers to the infant, smiling as he squirms inside the blankets the doctors had swaddled him in. He’s not crying anymore, but he’s definitely awake, blinking up at Ian with bright blue eyes, unfocused because his vision isn’t good enough yet to see, but it’s like he’s trying all the same. He’s a tough little sucker already. Almost like he knows what kind of world he just got born into. 

“Can I?” Fiona asks sometime later. Ian’s not really sure how long he’s been standing there, holding the baby, but his sister’s words pull him out of it. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says immediately, not letting her nor Mandy see the true depths of what he’s feeling. 

Carefully, reverently, he passes the newborn into Fiona’s arms. 

“Wow,” his sister whispers, awestruck and happy, “look at those eyes.” 

Ian smiles. “Just like Mandy’s.” He points out. “And Mickey’s.” He doesn’t say anything else. 

“Yeah.” Fiona agrees, only a little hesitant. Then, she looks back up at Mandy. “You have a name yet?” 

“Yeah.” Mandy nods, glancing at Ian with a sly grin. “Yeah, we came up with something a while ago.” 

***

Ian and Fiona leave after a few minutes, because the doctors have to check Mandy over, and she and her son need some time alone together, and because Mickey, Iggy, and Jimmy are out in the lobby probably going crazy waiting for an update. 

The three men jump to their feet in comically unplanned coordination as soon as Ian and Fiona round the corner and come into view. 

“Well?” Iggy is the first one to ask, so impatient that it kind of looks like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin. 

“Perfectly healthy baby boy.” Fiona shares immediately. 

There’s the expected sighs of relief, cheering, and even hugging after that. Ian bro-hugs Iggy and Jimmy, and then pulls Mickey into his arms, letting the smaller man collapse against him for a few seconds, all the tension of waiting seeping right out of him now that everything is okay. 

“Damn, man,” Mickey sighs as he pulls back. “Fucking stressful shit. We need to get lit tonight.” 

Ian laughs lightly. “I think Kev still has some of that good weed.” 

“Yeah,” Mickey nods once, then again more firmly. “Yeah, you can smoke on your meds, right?” 

Ian chuckles. “Yeah, it’s not like drinking.” 

“Great,” Mickey nods again. “Good. Awesome. We’re doing that. Fuck.” 

Ian just shakes his head, still laughing. They stay in the waiting room together for another fifteen minutes before the doctor comes back and tells them that they can go in and see Mandy and the baby again. Iggy makes a beeline for the room as soon as he’s given the okay, and Jimmy slings an arm around Fiona’s shoulders, the two of them following at a slower pace as they whisper to each other, and Mickey starts after them, too, but stops when he realizes Ian has hung back. 

“What’s up?” He turns around to ask, once the others have disappeared around the corner. 

“I’m gonna go call Debbie,” Ian explains. “See if she wants to have V bring her down. I promised her I’d let her know as soon as the baby was born.” 

Mickey eyes him curiously for a moment, but eventually just shrugs. “Alright, man, just hurry up.” He implores. “I’ve never held a fucking baby before, y’know.” 

Ian chuckles softly. “Fiona will show you.” 

“Don’t want fucking Fiona to show me, firecrotch.” He rolls his eyes, but turns around after another beat and follows the others. 

Ian takes a deep breath, waits until he’s sure all of them are gone for the time being, and then heads for the elevator. It takes him roughly five minutes to find a smoking section once he’s outside. Technically, there aren’t smoking sections at hospitals anymore, but the collection of people in scrubs puffing away at a nearby bus stop lets him know that he’s found the next best thing. 

He settles down on a bench away from the crowd, pulls one of Mickey’s cigarettes out of his pocket – technically, Ian had quit months ago, though he still steals the more-than-occasional hit from his boyfriend – and lights it up as he pulls out his phone. 

He does, as promised, send a quick text to Debbie with the news of the baby’s safe arrival, but the number he actually dials, once he’s taken a deep, nicotine-filled breath and worked himself up to it, is Lip’s. 

It rings seven and a half times before cutting off and diverting Ian to his brother’s voicemail. 

_“Can’t come to the phone right now. Do your thing after the thing.” Beep._

“Hey,” Ian exhales shakily, wondering how much he’s going to regret doing this, and if he should just stop now, while he still can. It’s a pointless thought, though, because he knows he won’t. It’s stupid, maybe the stupidest thing he’s ever done not-manic, but Lip is his big brother, and Ian feels like he doesn’t have a choice. 

“Hey,” he repeats, firmer this time into Lip’s voicemail. “I’m, uh, at the hospital. Everyone’s okay,” he adds quickly, because Gallaghers and hospitals aren’t usually a good combination. “I just, well…Mandy had her baby.” He swallows thickly. “It’s a boy. He came a little early, but he’s good. They’re both good. Mickey, Iggy, Fiona, and Jimmy are with her. The kids will probably come by later, too. I just, uh…look, man, I know we haven’t talked in a while. And I know, I know you’re pissed at me, at all of us, because we said you have a problem and…well, I mean you do have a problem, but…I don’t wanna fight with you about it anymore, okay? You need to get help. You…I mean, you came and got me while I was living in New York, when I was all fucking crazy and shit, and you always said it wasn’t really me, right? It was just Monica’s stupid fucking genetics. Russian roulette, right? One of us was bound to wind up with it. And I think it’s the same thing with you and Frank and the drinking, okay? You’re sick, man. _Fuck_.” 

Ian stands up from where he’s been sitting on the bench, phone still pressed to his ear, pacing and smoking as he continues to talk to a recording machine, only half-convinced his brother will even listen to the message. Still, this is something he has to do. 

“You’re really sick, Lip. Just like I was.” He continues. “And I know that, I know that you have to work through it on your own, just like I did, and I’m not gonna hate you for it. I’m not gonna try to guilt you into getting help. I just…Actually yeah, I am. I am gonna try to guilt you into it, because I don’t want you to be Frank, okay? I don’t wanna be getting calls at four in the morning to bail you outta jail. I don’t wanna have to worry every time we don’t see you for a few weeks that you’re dead in a ditch somewhere. Remember when Frank vanished for, like, six months that one time, and Debbie hung all those ribbons on the fence? Fuck, man, I don’t want that to be you, okay? And I’m telling you this because…well, because it’s true. I don’t want to lose you.” 

He takes another deep drag off the cigarette, his fingers shaking. 

“I’m also telling you all this because I’m pretty sure Mandy’s baby is yours.” 

And there it is. The one thing nobody has said out loud yet. The thing Ian hadn’t been sure about until roughly half an hour ago. 

“He’s got your eyes, man.” Ian continues into Lip’s voicemail, forgetting, for a moment, that he’s not actually talking to his brother, that this whole speech might get deleted before anyone ever hears a word of it. “Not just the color, because Mandy’s eyes are blue, too, and genetics or whatever, right?” He chuckles humorlessly. “But, fuck, man, just the way he looked at me. Five minutes old and he’s already got that look, y’know? That fuck the world little squint. He’s a Gallagher, man, I’d bet my life on it. He’s yours. 

“Shit, Mandy’s gonna kill me if she finds out I told you this. She’s been so fucking determined that the father wasn’t in the picture, and I thought…well, that she probably knows best. I’ve been wondering, though, since she told me, since the _second_ she told me, I’ve been wondering if she knew it was yours. I never asked her, though. Maybe I thought it’d just be easier if I didn’t know. If no one knew for sure. But, now that he’s here…Fuck, Lip. I’m so sure, man. I’m so fucking sure that this kid is yours, okay? And I know, we both know, that Frank could never get sober, not for any of us, but you’re not him, alright? I’m not Monica, and you’re not Frank, and we don’t have to repeat their fucking mistakes, okay? We _don’t_.” 

He takes one last pull from the cigarette, absently wondering if Lip’s voicemail has a cutoff time. 

“His name’s Cody, by the way.” He adds, realizing that he hasn’t said that yet. “Cody Aleksandr Milkovich.” He chuckles dryly. “Like Visions of Cody, remember? That Jack Kerouac book? Me and Mandy used to get high and read that for hours. You and me did, too. Long before Mandy was a part of our lives. And I know…I remember Monica reading it to us in Kansas. I know that’s why you stole us a copy when we were kids. Tradition or something, right?” He laughs again, feeling it that he’s on the verge of tears. He blinks them away. “I gotta go back inside now. I’ve been gone for a while and they’ll be wondering where I am. I’m gonna go hold your son, Lip. I don’t wanna be the Gallagher he winds up calling dad, but that’s how it’s gonna go if you don’t get some help, man. You’ve got a _kid_ , Lip. Cody’s _yours_ , and I... Just…don’t be Frank, okay? _Please_.”

___________________________________________________

**Next Time:**

 _“Ian,” Fiona says his name this time, much gentler than Mandy had, and Mickey can see that it acts as a sort of lifeline – pulls him out of the spotlight of Mandy’s downright terrifying focus. What she says next, though, isn’t exactly what Mickey had been expecting. “Was this about Cody?”_

_“Yeah.” Ian breathes, biting at the side of his lip as his gaze flits between his sister, Mickey, and Mandy. “Yeah, it was.”_

___________________________________________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drop me a line if you feel so inclined. Hey, that kinda rhymed. Heh. <3


	16. Like Father, Like Son

**\--XVI—**

_Like Father, Like Son_

***  
***

Ian’s buried deep inside of him, thrusting long and slow, his fingers carding through Mickey’s hair, and it’s perfect, it’s absolutely fucking perfect. 

“God, so good,” Ian’s saying, mumbling all those things Mickey loves to hear, right in his ear. And he’s so close, so fucking close to falling over that blissful edge. 

So of course, as if on cue, that’s when Cody’s crying cuts through the baby monitor. 

Ian groans when he hears it, collapsing against Mickey’s chest, still inside of him, and huffs lightly against his skin. “Fuck.” He breathes, irritation evident.

“Man, that’s the third time this _week_.” The older man complains, feeling his erection flag. “That kid has something against us, I swear to fucking – _shit_ ,” he interrupts himself, hissing as Ian pulls out of him. 

“Sorry,” the redhead soothes him, running a hand down the expanse of his chest and stomach even as he moves into a sitting position. “Maybe we can get a hotel room or something. Get away for a few nights.” 

“With what money?” Mickey asks, sitting up, too, as Cody continues to wail over the monitor. 

“I’ll be starting my new job soon.” Ian says, rubbing a hand over his face tiredly. “We’ll have more money coming in between that and Mandy being back at work.” 

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees sarcastically, “and you’ll have a _new fucking job_. Not like they’re gonna let you cut out for a few days your first week to go bang your boyfriend.” 

Ian smiles a little, even in the midst of their cranky bickering, because there’s something about Mickey referring to himself as Ian’s boyfriend that still gets to the other man. Mickey can’t deny that it gets to him, too. 

“I’m saying we should go now, before I start,” Ian explains, standing up and pulling on his boxers and jeans as Cody continues to cry. “We can pull the money out of our savings and I’ll be able to put it back in a few weeks.” 

“Because you’ll be making more money than me.” Mickey gripes. He doesn’t mean to sound accusing, but does anyway. “So that means you get to decide what we do with it, right?” 

“Why the fuck are you being such a bitch right now?” Ian snaps, the stress of no sleep and not fucking finally pushing him over the edge a little bit. 

“The fuck did you just call me?” Mickey demands, low and threatening. 

“Never mind.” Ian shakes his head, sounding tired again. 

“No, fuck that.” Mickey stands up, too, still naked as the day he was born. “ _Fuck that_. Say what you mean, Gallagher.” 

“I – jesus fuck, Mick, someone has to go check on the kid.” Ian gestures wildly to the baby monitor; Cody still hasn’t given it a rest. 

“Well, where the fuck’s his mom at, anyway?” He asks. Cody’s crying finally registering as something more than a painfully annoying background noise. 

“Mandy’s at work.” Ian bites. “Iggy’s at work. Every one’s at fucking work except us, so either we go check on the kid or –”

“Or what?” Mickey interrupts impatiently. “What happens if we don’t tend to his every fucking whim, man? He’s not gonna fucking _die_. Isn’t crying it out a thing?” 

“He’s three months old.” Ian rolls his eyes. Then he pauses for a second, as if waiting for Mickey to say something else. But Mickey, honestly, doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what they’re fighting about, doesn’t even know for sure _if_ they’re fighting. All he knows is that he’s tired as shit and horny to boot, and he really, really kind of hates having to split Ian’s attention with someone else. Even if that someone else is his defenseless, infant nephew. 

“Fine,” Ian huffs after another few beats, when it becomes obvious that Mickey’s not going to say or do anything more. “I’ll deal with the kid. You do whatever the fuck you want.” 

***

Mickey sits on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. 

No one had told him that having a baby in the house would be so fucking _stressful_. 

That’s a lie, actually. Everyone had fucking told him that, including Ian. Mickey just hadn’t understood. He’d figured…fuck, he doesn’t even know what he’d figured. What he’d been thinking. And now, it’s like all his thoughts are getting lost in a haze of sleep deprivation and impatience. 

He’d been more concerned about Ian, if he’s being honest with himself. 

Despite how much they’d talked about it, Mickey had been so sure that having a baby around would fuck with Ian’s routine, send him into a bout of mania or depression, and just…fuck everything up. 

But, Ian’s doing fine. 

He’s as tired as the rest of them, but honestly, next to Mandy, he does the most. He almost always wakes up in the middle of the night when Cody starts crying, he goes grocery shopping when everyone else is too tired to bother, he coordinates their schedules so Cody always has someone at home to watch him – it’s too soon for daycare, apparently. Mickey doesn’t even understand why, but Ian and Fiona say it’s true, so it must be. 

And Mickey’s just tagging along for the ride. He does what Ian tells him, what Mandy and Fiona say is best, but he just doesn’t _get_ it. 

He loves the kid – Cody’s his blood, after all, and Mickey would go to the ends of the earth to protect him – and maybe someday he’ll even like the fucker. But, right now, he really just _doesn’t_. 

Tiredly, and with more effort than he thinks it should take, Mickey gets up from the bed, tugs on some clothes, and wanders into the nursery that had once been Mandy’s room. 

Ian has Cody in his arms, softly cooing nonsense in the baby’s ear as he rocks gently back and forth. And, the kid seems to be enjoying it – being the center of attention. A Milkovich true and true, Mickey thinks with a small grin – willing to manipulate anyone and everyone to get what he wants. 

The sight of Ian, still shirtless and holding Mickey’s nephew against his chest, isn’t such a bad view, either. 

Mickey crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. He can tell the exact moment Ian realizes he’s there – his body shifts ever so slightly, though his movements don’t falter at all. Mickey can just tell, though, can read Ian Gallagher like an open book. 

“It’ll be easier once he starts sleeping through the night.” Ian says lowly, never pausing his soft rocking motions. “The first few months are always the hardest.” 

Mickey sighs heavily. “I miss you, man.” 

It’s not something he’d normally say – especially since Ian hasn’t technically _been_ anywhere – but he’s tired and distracted and seriously, fuck this kid a little bit, because it’s all his fucking fault. 

“Yeah.” Ian sighs, finally turning so he can face Mickey. “I know.” 

They don’t say anything else, not that afternoon. They tend to Cody because they have to – because they’re the fucking adults and Cody is a baby and it’s their job, what they’d signed on for when all of this had started. 

Later, after Iggy gets home and takes the screaming infant off their hands for a few hours, they go back to what they’d been doing before. It’s not exactly the same – always a little faster these days, rushed in case something happens and they don’t get the chance to finish. Except, they do actually get to finish this time. They even get to sleep for a while – almost four straight hours, before the house wakes up again and the chaos reanimates. 

“Won’t be forever,” Ian whispers against his temple, still caught in the haze of sleep and struggling to get out of bed. “You’ll get used to it and it’ll settle down. I promise.”

Mickey tugs him forward by the bicep and kisses him firmly. “We’ll be okay.” 

It’s usually Ian’s job to say shit like that, but Mickey needs to hear himself say it, at least tonight. And maybe Ian had needed to hear him say it, too, because his face softens considerably. 

“Yeah,” he echoes, grinning when Mickey gets out of bed with him. “Yeah, we will be.” 

***

It takes months to find a balance that works for all of them, but once they do it’s fucking golden. Between Mickey’s job at the bar, Iggy’s at the diner, Mandy’s at the car dealership, and Ian’s at the gym, they’re all making money legitimately, and there’s barely a single crime committed between them, anymore. They still smoke pot, on occasion, and Mickey’s pretty sure Carl had buried a few guns in their backyard, so it’s not a totally on-the-up-and-up living environment – but, honestly, what house on the Southside is? They’re as close as they’re ever going to get, and it’s so much more than Mickey ever would have expected out of any of them. 

It's good, what they’ve got going. It’s good for them and it’s great for Cody, but still. Sometimes Mickey misses the way his life used to be. 

“I dunno, man,” he tells Ian one night, the two of them splitting a joint in the Gallagher’s backyard, sitting side-by-side on the porch to get away from all of the noise inside. The weed makes Mickey talkative in a way he usually isn’t, and Ian encourages it, listening intently. “I started selling drugs for Terry when I was thirteen. Guns a year after that. Running from the cops, scamming people, it’s in my blood.” 

He expects Ian to give him a speech about being a better person, about how it’s possible to change your life by making different choices – all that crap (that’s not really crap) Ian usually spouts off about. 

Only, the redhead’s been kind of weird lately – not in a bipolar way, Mickey’s almost positive, but distracted, like something’s been on his mind – and instead of saying any of the stuff he’d normally say, to Mickey’s bittersweet remanences about his childhood, Ian just cocks his head to the side and smiles sadly. 

“I know what you mean.” He agrees, startling Mickey almost out of his high. “It was easier back then. I mean, fuck,” he laughs hollowly, “if you had told me a few years ago that Mandy was gonna have a baby, that me and you were gonna be helping her raise it, that Fiona would be with Jimmy again after getting _divorced_ , that Frank would even still be _alive_ …I wouldn’t have believed any of it, y’know?” 

Mickey nods a few times, trying to work out both Ian’s words and what they mean. The weed is making it a little hard. “Do you regret it?” 

Ian glances over at him, expression tight with something close to anger for a second, but after he gets a good look at Mickey, reads him in that way only he ever can, his face softens. “You’re high.” He sing-songs, clearly biting back a laugh. 

“Fuck you.” Mickey says, even though he doesn’t really mean it. “It’s a serious question, firecrotch.” 

“I know.” Ian sighs deeply, but moves one of his hands to Mickey’s knee and squeezes firmly all the same. “And, I dunno. There’s a lot of stuff I regret. Shit that happened in New York. Things I did after you left.” Ian stops for a second, bites his lip hard, and stares almost too intently at the spot on Mickey’s knee where his hand is resting. “I let some guy fuck me once. Because Monica needed bail money and we didn’t have any other options.” 

“Shit.” Mickey breathes, absently glad that he’s high right now, that there’s something in his system dulling his emotions, because he’s not sure he could have handled hearing those words otherwise. “I didn’t know that.” 

He’d known about the blowjobs and the clubs Ian used to work at. He hadn’t known about this. 

“I haven’t thought about it in a long time.” Ian shrugs like it doesn’t matter, and maybe it doesn’t to him, anymore. Maybe Ian’s got a box in his head where he puts all of that shit – the manic, fucked-up brain shit – so he doesn’t have to deal with it every day. Mickey understands the importance of boxes like that; he’s got one of his own just for Terry, and he doesn’t ever drag it out unless he absolutely has to. 

“Do you remember his name?” Mickey asks, falling back on old habits without any sort of conscious thought. “Because I really wanna kill him.” 

Ian shoves his knee back and forth fondly. “Nah.” He shrugs. “He’s probably dead by now, anyway. Serious meth-head.” 

Mickey squints at him. It’s dark outside, but the two of them are illuminated by the Gallagher’s porch light and the couple streetlamps out front that still work. Ian’s hair looks darker because of the lighting; a deep brown with only the faintest tinge of orange. Mickey knows he’s not a different person, that he’s still Ian and it’s just the shadows playing tricks on him, but it makes his gut clench painfully all the same. He hates it when Ian feels like a stranger. 

The other man smiles at him all of a sudden, small and warm, like maybe he can tell what Mickey’s thinking and wants to distract him. “I don’t think we’re ever gonna change entirely.” 

Mickey considers that for a few long moments, thinks about Ian and the shadows and all of the things he still doesn’t know, the things he might never know. “Is that good?” He has to ask, because he’s almost afraid. 

“I just mean that the shit we’ve been through, the way we grew up…” Ian trails off for a second, waving his hand around, “it’s always gonna be us. Me and you, we’d never work with anyone else.” 

“Are you saying you’re stuck with me?” Mickey asks, not entirely sure how he feels about that. 

“I’m saying I wanna be stuck with you.” Ian confirms. Or maybe corrects. Honestly, Mickey gets a little lost trying to work it out, because whatever this weed that Jimmy had snagged for them is, it’s doing its fucking job and then some. “I’m stuck with you because I love you, not the other way around.” He moves forward slightly and kisses Mickey’s temple. The brunette leans into the affection even though he’s still kind of confused. “This is us,” he whispers when he pulls back. “And that’s the way it’s always gonna be.” 

“You don’t hate who we turned into, do you?” Mickey asks, still thinking about the two of them as teenagers, and all the differences between then and now. “That things aren’t the way they used to be?” 

Ian hums lowly and leans against him a little more firmly. “I don’t hate anything.” He says after a while. “I don’t think I could ever hate anything you turn into.” 

Mickey’s chest swells with warmth and affection. He’s smiling so widely that it hurts, but he can’t stop. He really just fucking can’t. And doesn’t want to, anyway. “I’m fucking stoned as shit right now.” 

Ian laughs loudly. “Yeah.” He agrees. “Me, too.” 

“This’ll still count later, though, right?” Mickey asks, nervous all of a sudden. “Not a bubble?” 

“No.” Ian shakes his head seriously. “Definitely not a bubble.” 

The redhead leans in for a kiss, and Mickey doesn’t stop him. They’re still sitting like that – making out and grinning like idiots into each other’s mouths – when Fiona eventually finds them. She doesn’t do more than roll her eyes at the display. 

“I made chicken and dumplings.” She tells them, once they’ve pulled away from one another long enough to acknowledge her. 

“Really?” Ian asks, sounding disbelieving. 

“Jimmy made chicken and dumplings.” She corrects herself with an easy shrug. “You gonna come inside?” 

Mickey and Ian both nod at her, unified. “Yeah, we’ll be right there.” 

***

“Hey, Ian.” Mickey starts a few days later, not entirely sure what he’s going to say but sure, so fucking sure, that he has to say something. He can’t stop thinking about what Ian had told him the other night in his childhood backyard; can’t stop wondering why he’d never mentioned it before.

“Yeah?” The redhead asks, quirking an eyebrow when Mickey doesn’t immediately respond back. Fiona and Mandy are at the clinic with Cody – some kind of scheduled checkup – and Iggy’s at work. Mickey and Ian are alone in the house, and for once (or at least, for now) they’re not using the seclusion as an excuse to bang. Mickey’s got his legs propped up on the coffee table, mindlessly flipping through their limited TV channels. Ian’s stretched out longways on the couch reading a book, his feet in Mickey’s lap. 

“Just –” Mickey clears his throat uncomfortably, not sure saying what he’s going to say next is for the best, even though he’d already decided that it was. “You know none of that shit was your fault, right?”

Ian looks confused for a few seconds, resting his book against his chest and tilting his head like he’s trying to figure it out, figure Mickey out. Then, like a door slamming shut behind his eyes, he does. 

“I know.” Ian says swiftly, nodding once and picking the book up again, raising it in front of his face. 

“You coulda told me before, too,” Mickey adds, no idea if he’s doing this right. “It wouldn’t’ve changed anything.” 

Ian huffs lightly, but says only, “Okay.” 

Mickey’s eyes narrow, because he doesn’t like the implication he’d just heard. “What? You think it would’ve? You think I coulda heard that story and blamed you for it? Fuck that, Ian. And fuck Monica.” 

Ian lowers the book again; his gaze is icy. “It wasn’t Monica’s fault, either.” 

“Like fuck.” Mickey retorts. And, shit, this isn’t what he’d meant to get into, not really. He’d wanted Ian to talk about it, maybe. Hear, at least, that Mickey doesn’t think less of him because of what had happened back then. Because he must have been expecting it, right? Why else would he have never mentioned it before? 

“She wasn’t any better off than I was,” Ian explains through gritted teeth. “You’ve heard all of this before, man. How being manic is like a drug. We were both out of our minds, Mickey, can you really blame her for…” 

“For you getting fucked by some meth-head for a couple bucks?” Mickey fills in, cringing a little at the harshness of his own words even as Ian’s face softens. “Yeah, I can.” He finishes, gentler than before, but still unyielding. 

Ian studies him for a long time after that, eyes focused and unwavering until Mickey feels laid bare beneath the force of them. “What?” He finally sighs.

“I didn’t like it.” 

The older man nearly chokes. “I didn’t fucking think you did.” 

“No, I mean…” Ian pauses for a moment, takes a few deep breaths and glances briefly at the ceiling before settling on Mickey again. “I know you and I never really…switch things up.” 

Mickey doesn’t try to hide the expression his face morphs into – he’s pretty sure it’s a mix of disbelief, disgust, and hurt. “You think that’s why I brought this up?” 

“No,” Ian says quickly, clearly reading Mickey’s reaction. “No, I know it’s not. I just think about it sometimes, y’know? Like, is it fair to you? Or do you ever want to…” He shakes his head briefly, “But I never bring it up because I love the way we are and I don’t want it to change. Don’t think I could…” 

He trails off again, but the implication of his words is crystal clear. Mickey’s heart stutters to a stop from one breath to the next, becoming dead weight in the center of his chest. “Ian.” 

“Is it something you want?” the redhead asks quickly, either misreading Mickey’s reaction or simply inserting his own after so long of being afraid to say this out loud. “Because we could – we could.” 

“Stop.” Mickey says gently, lowering his hand to Ian’s calf and massaging the muscle firmly. “If I wanted to fuck a guy in the ass I woulda done it in prison.” 

Ian actually snorts, clearly having not expected that particular response.

“I know what I like, man, and I know what you like, too.” Mickey makes sure Ian’s eyes stay on his. “I don’t wanna change anything.” 

“No?” Ian asks, considerably less panicked-looking than before, but still with an edge of doubt that Mickey doesn’t like. 

The older man rolls his eyes and tosses the remote control to the side. He leans over, nudging Ian’s legs apart until he’s settled comfortably (or at least somewhat comfortably, given the size of their couch) in between his thighs. “Of course not.” Mickey breathes, lifting Ian’s t-shirt slightly to kiss the hard jut of his hipbone, the flat expanse of his stomach, the raised scar on his side. The redhead shudders at the attention, going boneless beneath him. “Want me to prove it?”

Turns out, Ian’s pretty easy to convince. That doesn’t stop Mickey from spending the rest of the afternoon demonstrating his commitment to that declaration. 

***

Dinners at the Gallagher’s have become somewhat of a regular thing. At least twice a month, and usually more often than that, Fiona insists on having Mickey, Ian, Mandy, Cody, and even Iggy – when he’s not out with his girlfriend (a word Mickey didn’t think he’d ever be able to use in relation to his brother and any girl he was involved with) – over for dinner. 

Mickey bitches about it a lot, but that’s mostly just out of habit and a little bit for show. It’s actually something that he’s gotten rather used to, these dinners, and he’s pretty sure they only happen as often as they do because of him and Mandy. It’s no secret that the Milkovich household hadn’t ever been a haven of safety or love, and while the Gallagher’s have never been exactly normal, or even functional some of the time, they _have_ always loved each other. And Fiona, in a really unsubtle kind of way, is trying to teach Mickey and Mandy about that, about what families are supposed to be like. 

And, yeah, she’s probably only doing it for her brother and the baby he’s helping to raise, but Mickey likes to think that some of it’s about just him and Mandy, too; that she cares about them almost the same way she cares about her own siblings. 

Either way, it’s nice. And plus, there’s always free food. 

It’s on one of these nights, when Cody’s about six months old, that shit well and truly hits the fan. 

The evening is normal at first: the Milkovichs and most of the Gallaghers are there. Debbie should be home soon, they’re told – she’s out with Derek. Kev and V drop in – they do that sometimes – and Mickey gets caught up talking to the guy who’s technically his boss, and doesn’t even notice it when Ian disappears. 

Fiona’s cooking in the kitchen – which turns into cooking and drinking wine once V shows up with a box of it – and Carl insists on turning the stereo on – good old fashioned classic rap, so Mickey’s not exactly complaining. 

Mandy’s upstairs feeding Cody, and Liam had followed her up there – the youngest Gallagher has been openly obsessed with the baby since the first time he’d met him, and Mickey thinks it has a lot to do with Cody being younger than him, and Liam finally being old enough now to realize that he’s the baby of his own family, and gets treated differently because of it. 

Mickey’s in the living room with Carl, Kev, Iggy, and Jimmy, the girls are laughing loudly in the kitchen, he can hear Mandy and Liam walking around upstairs, and it’s just so many people. There’s always a lot of people in the Gallagher house, and Mickey’s gotten used to it, all of them kind of bleeding together. 

That’s why he doesn’t notice it at first, that Ian’s vanished somewhere. 

In fact, he doesn’t notice anything at all until the music abruptly stops, dousing the entire house in unsettling silence. 

Mickey turns, beer in hand, towards the stereo. That’s when he realizes that Debbie’s managed to slip into the living room without anyone seeing. She’s standing there looking at all of them with something close to panic in her gaze. 

“Thank you.” She huffs, once everyone else has followed Mickey’s lead and turned towards her. 

“Yo, what the fuck?” Carl exclaims, clearly annoyed at having the impromptu party-like atmosphere dissipate. 

“Debs?” Fiona asks, standing in the doorway of the kitchen looking worried. “What’s going on?” 

The younger redhead is waving her arms wildly, like Fiona sometimes does when she’s truly frantic. “Does anyone else know that Lip and Ian are in the front yard beating the shit out of each other?” 

***  
***

**Twelve Minutes Earlier**

Ian takes a deep drag from the cigarette he’d stolen out of Iggy’s jacket pocket earlier, and then exhales soundlessly, trying not to feel guilty. 

A few weeks ago, he’d declared his intent to quit smoking entirely to everyone he knew, thinking that making a grand public announcement would solidify his resolve – turns out, he’s not so good at breaking bad habits. Which isn’t entirely true, because he’s changed a lot since he’d come home, but some things are just _in_ him, and always will be. 

He’s been thinking about that a lot lately; the way addiction and bad decisions have weaved the fabric of his life together. He’s even been remembering Nathan, and the way they’d lived in New York. It’s almost funny – in a pathetic, not so funny kind of way – that Ian had been with a guy like that, no matter how briefly. With the perception of hindsight, Ian can’t help but realize how similar Nate had been to Frank. 

During the time that they’d been together, all he’d been able to see were Nate’s similarities to Mickey – of course, it hadn’t helped that his fucked-up brain had constantly tried to trick him into thinking that Nate _was_ Mickey – but now that he’s well and truly detached from that particular piece of his past (and also now that he has Mickey back) he can’t help but see that Nate’s addiction had reminded him, maybe a little too much, of Frank. 

It had been almost comforting, in a way. Life with an addict is never good, but it’s something Ian’s always been familiar with. The cycles of highs and lows, the violence and unpredictability that comes with them… it had been routine, something he’d learned to navigate so early on in life that it hadn’t required much adaption at all. Frank’s drug of choice had always been alcohol, of course, while Nate had been a pill-head through and through, but those had been like different window dressings on the same colossally fucked-up display. 

And it had been so _easy_. 

The fact that Ian had been doing the same shit – that he’d disappeared into a haze of mania, pain killers, alcohol, and sex – had made it even easier. He never had to worry that Nate was going to judge him for not taking his bipolar meds, or for fucking strangers, or dancing at clubs, or snorting his dinner, or not coming home for weeks at a time. It’s been almost two years now since Ian had last seen Nate, and he’s only recently begun to realize how impossibly toxic they’d been together. And how easy it would have been for Ian to stay with him for a lot longer than he had. 

It scares him, when he thinks about it for too long, how close he’d come to living that kind of life permanently, but it doesn’t surprise him. That’s the life he knows. And choosing a different one – a safer, calmer one – hadn’t been easy. Some days it’s still not easy, and if he didn’t have Mickey and Cody, he’s not entirely sure he’d be able to do it at all. 

When he thinks about it like that, reminds himself how close he’d come to following in Frank and Monica’s footsteps, it’s easier for him to understand why Lip’s doing it now.

_“And she’s a fucking addict. You’re not, man. You ain’t like her and you’re not like fucking Frank, either. You’re seventeen years old, Ian. You’ve had this shit fucking up your head for less than a year, and you’re already dealing with it better than Monica has in her whole fucking life.”_

Ian’s different than his parents, Mickey had told him as much that day in New York, and as hard as it’s been, every day since then, to make different decisions, he’s been doing it. He’d gone from barely surviving to thriving, and it hadn’t been alone, but Lip’s not alone, either. Ian’s big brother might like to think he is, maybe even has always felt like he is, but he’s _not_. 

And Ian’s torn – because he knows how hard it is to get out of that place, that pit of addiction that they all know so incredibly well, but he also knows that you _can_. You fucking can, you just have to try. And he doesn’t want to hate his brother for not being able to, but every time he looks at Cody, thinks about the kid growing up without ever knowing his real father, flashing forward on the inevitable day when they have to buy him a tiny black suit so he can go to Lip’s funeral…it’s just too much. He gets worked up and angry at the very thought of Lip acting the same way – 

“Hey, man,” the loud, sloppy greeting pulls Ian abruptly back to reality. 

It should be startling, the fact that thoughts of his big brother had seemingly summoned him into existence in front of him, but it’s not. Ian’s been thinking about Lip so much lately that it had really only been a matter of time before something like this happened. 

Ian tosses his cigarette to the ground and hops off the porch, meeting Lip at the entrance of the fence. 

“Hey,” he says back, carefully controlled because he can already tell that his brother is fucking wasted. “What are you doing here?” 

Lip is stumbling slightly, using the fence to keep his balance. He’s got a beer can in his left hand, Ian sees now that he’s closer. Lip raises it up and drops his head back, letting the very last few drips fall into his mouth before crushing it in his fist and tossing it into the street. 

The clatter of aluminum on concrete echoes in the dark. 

“I came to see my, the – Mandy’s kid,” he stutters over his words with a combination of uncertainty and drunkenness. “I got your message, and I thought…” he waves his arms around almost too wildly, losing his footing. 

Ian grabs onto him without thought, because they’ve had each other’s backs their whole damn lives – the brothers Gallagher – but the way Lip smiles at him when he does it, the way he looks almost relieved, like Ian’s not mad at him and that’s the best thing in the world, it makes the redhead pull back slightly. Because he _is_ mad at Lip, and the older boy needs to know that. 

“I don’t think that’s a great idea.” He says carefully. 

“I went to the – to your house first.” Lip waves down the street – not in the direction of the Milkovich house, but Ian gets that that’s what he’d been going for. “But I knocked and knocked,” he emphasizes this by rapping his fist lightly against Ian’s bicep, “and no one, no one answered.” He pauses briefly, looks blearily at Ian, his eyes far too glassy, and then says, “Are you sure, man? Because last time…last time I was really fucking sure and then…” 

Ian cringes. He doesn’t think any of them will ever forget the moment Karen’s baby had been born, and the devastation Lip had felt when it hadn’t been his. 

“I’m as sure as I can be without a DNA test.” Ian answers honestly, because he hasn’t asked Mandy, hasn’t mentioned Cody’s potential parentage to anyone, in fact, since the day he’d been born. But the older the kid gets, the more he develops into having a personality of his own, the more positive he is. It’ll only be a matter of time before other people start to see the resemblance. Hell, he’s pretty sure Fiona’s already figured it out. 

“Fuck, Ian,” Lip grabs onto his arm, laughing wildly into the night. “I have a _kid_. Can you believe that?” 

Ian narrows his gaze pointedly. “Yeah, I can believe it.” He says shortly. “I’ve been believing it for the past _six months_. Where the hell have you been?” 

Because this is the first time since Cody was born that Ian’s seen his brother. He knows Fiona’s talked to him a few times in the past several months – that he’s called her drunk in the middle of the night, babbling nonsense – but he hasn’t made an actual appearance in a long time. 

At Ian’s words, and the obvious, unhidden anger behind them, Lip’s happy-drunk smile falters. “I was at school, asshole.” He snaps. 

Ian snorts. “They haven’t kicked you out yet?” 

Lip pulls away from him, leans on the fence instead, and all but snarls. “They _tried_.” 

Ian’s not even surprised. “Well that’s fucking great.” He deadpans. “You got a free fucking ride out of this shithole and you’re gonna fucking blow it, aren’t you?” 

“Hey, fuck you.” Lip uses his free hand to point at him accusingly. “You don’t know what it’s fucking like, man. You’re still here, aren’t you? You don’t get how goddamn _hard_ it is –”

“Oh, boo fucking hoo.” Ian cuts him off, feeling all the rage that he’s been ignoring for the past half a year rise steadily to the surface. He can already tell that this is going to be bad, that right now is when all of this comes to a head, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. “Is being a goddamn genius too fucking much for you? Is having every door in the world wide fucking open just too _hard_?” He laughs hollowly. “You know who you sound like right now, don’t you?” 

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Ian.” Lip growls, one hand curled into a tight fist at his side, his whole body rigid and waiting for the moment he’s going to strike. Ian can see it happening, knows what’s coming but still doesn’t stop, can’t stop, because he’s so unbelievably furious that he can’t see around it, not anymore. 

“I know exactly what I’m talking about.” He bites back, not giving an inch. “Go cry some more about how fucking _hard_ your life is, asshole. Then blow every chance you’ve got to make it better for a goddamn drink. Piss your entire fucking life away. Hell, you’re doing it already.” 

“You did the same fucking thing.” Lip all but screams at him, letting go of the fence to move closer, stumbling with clear intent. “You shacked up with Monica in a fucking _meth lab_. You woulda _died_ if I hadn’t found you.” He pushes Ian’s chest. “You _kidnapped_ Liam.” 

“I was sick.” Ian snarls, clenching his teeth so hard that his jaw hurts. “I was _actually_ sick, and I still managed to get passed it, to live my life –”

“Because I _found_ you.” Lip shouts over him. “I did that. _Me_. You’re here because of _me_.” 

Ian exhales slowly, not calming down at all. “You found me.” He acknowledges with a slow nod. “But _I_ came back, Lip. _I_ chose that. You don’t get to take credit for every good thing that happens in this family, not when you’ve barely been a part of it for almost a year.” 

“So they forgive _you_ for everything, but _I’m_ still a bad guy, huh?” He barks. “And why? Because you caught Monica’s breed of crazy you just get a free pass?” 

“Free pass?” Ian repeats, huffing his disbelief. “I have to live with this shit fucking me up for the rest of my fucking _life_ , no matter what I do.” He usually doesn’t let himself feel bitter about his diagnosis, has gotten to a place where he can accept the way he is, the way he’s always going to be, without hating himself, but Lip’s words bring back memories of every bad – every _crippling terrible_ – thing he’s ever felt about himself. And it pisses him off. It _infuriates_ him that years worth of therapy and medication, all the work he – and Mickey, and Mandy and Fiona, and every other person in his life who’s been here to help him through it – have done, can vanish in the wake of Lip’s careless, drunken accusations. “ _I_ don’t have a choice.” He seethes. “All _you_ have to do is _quit fucking drinking_.” 

“It’s not that easy, Ian.” Lip moves towards him again, uses both his hands to shove at his chest even harder than before. “You don’t understand.” 

“I understand that you might as well be Frank right now.” Ian finally snaps, saying the words out loud because he knows they’ll hurt. “I understand that you _do_ have a choice, and you’re choosing staying drunk over anything else. Over your family. Over your fucking son.” 

“Well, no one fucking asked me if I wanted that, did they?” Lip screams, gesturing wildly in the direction of the house. “Mandy sure as shit didn’t ask me, did she? Fuck, she didn’t even _tell_ me. She just had a baby and –”

“This isn’t _Mandy’s_ fucking fault.” Ian feels something fierce and wild surge to life inside of him; a primal need to protect the mother of the child that’s not his, not technically, but might as well be for how much Ian loves him. “Or mine, or even Frank’s. Man, this is on you. This is all on you, Lip.” 

“Fuck. You.” Lip says slowly, emphasizing each word with a finger against Ian’s chest. “Fuck you.” 

“Then again, maybe we both got it wrong.” Ian pulls back slightly with mock consideration. “Maybe you’re not the one who turned out most like Frank, after all.” 

“The fuck are you saying?” Lip demands, face scrunched in honest confusion, because while he might be able to read Ian’s anger, he’s still too drunk to wrap his head around the sudden shift in dialogue.

“I mean, me and Frank do have one pretty huge thing in common now,” he shrugs like his words don’t matter, but he steps closer to his brother, so close that he has to look down at him to growl out the rest, “we both wound up raising our brother’s kids.” 

Ian isn’t even surprised, less than a heartbeat later, when pain explodes across the side of his jaw.

***  
***

The scene that greets him when they make it outside stops Mickey in his tracks. 

In the years that he’s known Ian – and all the other Gallaghers by extension – he’s seen Lip and Ian get into it on more than a few occasions, but it’s never been _bad_. Not outside the normal realm of brothers fighting each other bad, anyway – a thing Mickey himself is well versed in, having grown up with several. 

Lip and Ian, separately, have always had pretty short fuses, and when they get locked together in just the wrong situation, both of them tend to become pretty explosive. Mickey’s broken up his fair share of fights between the two, and they’ve been ugly, sure, but fuck – in this neighborhood, the way people live, fighting is just another form of communication. Ian throwing punches with his brother has never concerned Mickey, not even a little, because that’s just the way they are. The way everyone is. Hell, the number of fights Mickey’s been in trumps Ian and Lip combined – besides Terry, Mickey himself has always been the most violent person he knows.

But when he steps outside of the Gallagher house that night and gets a good look at Lip and Ian, he doesn’t see two brothers beating the shit out of each other. No, what he sees, in that moment, is his father. 

Not literally, of course – Terry is long gone, a ghost of a bad memory that Mickey tries his best to never think about. But the way Lip and Ian are going at it – it’s a rage he’s only ever seen before in the monster of an asshole who had raised him. 

Lip and Ian are fighting to fucking _kill_ – and it stops him cold. 

“What the fuck?” He hears Fiona’s voice behind him, and she doesn’t sound angry or exasperated, the way she usually does when Lip and Ian – or any of her siblings – decide to settle their disagreements with their fists. No, she sounds truly scared. Terrified, even. 

At least, Mickey thinks dully, he’s not the only one who can tell that this is different. 

His shock doesn’t last long. Because for as off-putting as the scene in front of him is, his need to have Ian’s back is pretty fucking all-consuming, and he jumps into the fray without much more than a second thought. 

Ian’s face and hands are bloody, and he’s on the ground, on his side being pressed hard against the fence by Lip – who’s also covered in blood – when Mickey gets close enough to pull him off. It’s pure chaos. Mickey can’t tell which of them is hurt worse, who’s covered in who’s blood, where any of it is coming from – but it doesn’t matter. There’s blood and grunting and all too obvious pain, and that’s more than enough for him. 

He pulls hard at Lip’s shoulder and swings as soon as he can. Lip stumbles – and fuck, he reeks, he must have shown up here drunk – but he doesn’t fall. He pushes back against Mickey – shoves him hard enough that he stumbles – but then immediately turns back towards Ian. The moment of distraction was enough, though, that Ian has managed to get back to his feet, and he charges full-on at his brother, tackling him mid-body hard enough that they both hit the ground. 

What happens next is hard to keep track of, and Mickey’s distracted enough that he only sees it in bits and pieces. Fiona’s got her hands on Carl and Debbie, physically stopping them from rushing forward and joining the fight – her first job, always, is to protect them, even at the expense of helping the other two people she loves just as much. 

That one tiny moment is impossibly important, Mickey will realize later; it teaches him what the core of parenting truly is. 

That’ll be later, though. Right now, all he cares about is keeping Ian safe. 

He’s not sure who shouts what, or how they decide to split it up, but within minutes that feel like _fucking decades_ , Mickey, Iggy, Jimmy, and Kev manage to get between Lip and Ian. The four of them, eventually, exert enough brute force to get the brothers off of each other. 

Kev – the largest and strongest of all of them – has to literally sit on Lip to get him to stop. He only manages it with Jimmy’s help. 

Ian’s a little easier; once Lip is subdued, he calms down on his own. He’s still breathing hard – and covered in blood, fuck, there’s so much blood – and holding his body like he’s ready to strike the second his brother breaks free, but no one has to hold him back. Iggy’s standing firmly between him and Lip, arms up towards both of them like he’s ready to knock either of them down at a moment’s notice, but Ian’s not trying to lunge. Lip is. Even from where he’s pinned underneath Kev and Jimmy, he’s still trying to struggle, shouting, “Fuck you, Ian, fuck you!” over and over again, limbs flailing uselessly. 

Mickey’s got one hand on Ian’s shoulder, tight and unyielding, but Ian’s not trying to get away from him. He’s not fighting Mickey at all. Mickey doesn’t think he’s capable of it, honestly. At this point, he’s pretty sure that either of them physically hurting the other is an impossibility. 

“Hey, you’re okay, man, you’re okay.” Mickey hears himself saying. He steps directly into Ian’s line of sight, blocking the redhead’s view of his brother. And Ian tenses at that – more so than he already was – but Mickey understands. “They’ve got him, Ian. He ain’t moving.” 

Ian’s still not looking at him, but his chest starts rising and falling just a little bit slower. He still doesn’t say anything. 

“What the _fuck_ was that?” Fiona’s shout cuts through the brief moment of static stillness that had fallen between them. 

Now that it’s safer, she lets go of Debbie and Carl, and the latter immediately runs to Mickey’s side, as close to Ian as it’s safe to be in this moment. Debbie goes to Lip, falling to her knees next to her brother’s head. Mickey hears her mumbling something to him – he can’t make out the words, but he sees it out of the corner of his eye when his violent twitching lessens somewhat. 

“ _Fuck_ him is what that was.” Ian answers his sister with a shout, jolting suddenly out of his trance. 

Mickey tenses for a second, not sure if he’s going to have to stop Ian from attacking Lip again, but the redhead just shifts backwards and rubs a hand angrily over his own face, hissing at the sudden pain and the way the blood spreads over and through his fingers. 

“ _Ian_.” Fiona rounds on him, clearly recognizing that he’s the more coherent and controlled of the two – if only by a thread. “Ian.” She repeats, a little calmer as she comes closer. “Fuck, Ian.” She’s right next to Carl now, the both of them and Mickey creating a kind of half-circle around the redhead. “Are you… _fuck_. Are you okay? What _happened_?” 

And Mickey feels safe enough now to actually _look_ at his boyfriend. It’s hard to see, in the dark, the extent of Ian’s injuries, how many, or how bad they are, but his shirt is ripped, his jeans are torn at the knees, his hair is a mess, and everything, almost every part of him, is covered in blood. 

Mickey’s concerned about the injuries, is still half-watching Lip in preparation for another fight if the other man gets free, and also – maybe a little inappropriately, but he really can’t help it – is deeply proud of the younger man. Because there’s no doubt in Mickey’s mind, based on what he’d seen, that Ian would have won this fight had the rest of them not broken it up. 

So he likes that his boyfriend is a tough mother fucker – sue him. 

“Uh,” Jimmy clears his throat from the other side of the yard, and gestures down at Lip when everyone glances at him. “I think he passed out?” 

And, true enough, the older Gallagher has stopped moving all together now, his whole body slack, and his eyes closed. 

Mickey snorts briefly, and then turns back towards Ian. “Are you okay, man?” 

Ian’s still panting somewhat heavily, but he finally – fucking finally – actually meets Mickey’s gaze. His eyes go soft, and his shoulders sag slightly. “I dunno.” He mutters. He’s got his right hand wrapped around his left, using his thumb to knead at the jut of his wrist. 

“I’m gonna run home, get some supplies.” V says this from the porch, where she’s stayed out of the way of the fighting this whole time. Mickey had actually kind of forgotten that she was here. 

“Call your mom,” Kev says to her, almost casually from where he’s still sitting on top Lip, poking the side of his head absently, like he’s trying to make sure he’s actually unconscious. “See if she can keep Amy and Jemma overnight.” 

V nods at her husband, and then walks past all of them. The oddly domestic moment, and her departure, seems to shift the atmosphere somewhat, and once she’s gone, everyone starts talking all at once. Their voices bleeding together, making it impossible to discern any single statement or question. Mickey moves in closer to Ian, running his hands gently over the younger man’s chest and torso. Ian doesn’t react until Mickey reaches his ribs, when he hisses and flinches back slightly. 

“Get a look at those at home,” he mutters, almost under his breath, knowing that Ian will hear him even over the continuous yammering of everyone else. “Make sure nothing’s broke.” 

Ian huffs a light breath, and closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, he looks at Mickey with an expression so flooded with guilt that the older man is truly taken aback. “Mick, I –”

“Ian.” Mandy’s voice isn’t particularly loud, certainly not louder than everyone else’s combined, but it makes all of them, every single person in the Gallagher’s front yard, shut up almost immediately. 

Fiona and V can do that, too, sometimes; instantly halt a moment of chaos with a single word. Mickey knows that it’s a skill, a force, directly linked to motherhood. 

Ian glances up at where she is, standing on the porch – Mickey honestly has no idea how long she’s been there, how much she had seen – and the guilt in his features amplifies tenfold. “Mandy…”

“Ian,” she repeats, walking slowly down the steps, but stopping once she’s off the last one, not coming any closer. Everyone’s eyes are on her now. “Ian, what was this about?” 

Ian swallows thickly, and looks afraid. Mickey’s confused, painfully so, but protecting Ian is like a reflex. 

“Give him a minute, Mandy, shit,” he says, squeezing his boyfriend’s shoulder. 

“Mickey, don’t.” She says coldly, almost disturbingly calm. Her eyes don’t leave Ian. “Why did you guys fight?” 

“I…” It’s hard to tell for sure in the dark, especially with all the blood, but Mickey’s pretty sure Ian goes pale under her gaze. “I didn’t think…I didn’t know he was gonna show up here tonight.” 

“Why did he?” Mandy demands like she thinks Ian knows. 

Mickey’s eyes flit back to the redhead and…well, shit, maybe he _does_ know. He still looks so guilty, so _pained_. And it doesn’t make sense. Mickey hasn’t had more than a few seconds to think about it yet, but his immediate assumption had been that this was all about Lip’s drinking. Fuck-face has been acting so much like Frank recently, and Mickey knows it’s been hard on all the Gallaghers, watching him turn into the worst member of their family. Mickey had just assumed….

But Ian _has_ been distracted lately. Weird and kind of off-kilter. Mickey’s noticed, though he hasn’t yet gotten around to pressing Ian about it. Maybe that’s his fault – maybe he’d know what the fuck is going on right now if he’d just asked his boyfriend a fucking question. _Shit_. 

“Ian,” Fiona says his name this time, much gentler than Mandy had, and Mickey can see that it acts as a sort of lifeline – pulls him out of the spotlight of Mandy’s downright terrifying focus. What she says next, though, isn’t exactly what Mickey had been expecting. “Was this about Cody?” 

“Yeah.” Ian breathes, biting at the side of his lip as his gaze flits between his sister, Mickey, and Mandy. “Yeah, it was.” 

“What about Cody?” Mickey demands, feeling a kind of fear that he never has before, that he doesn’t know what to do with because it’s so much heavier than anything else he’s ever known. 

Ian looks at him and smiles. It’s pained and still so incredibly guilty, but there’s a reassurance in there, too. Mickey doesn’t know what it means, though. Doesn’t understand anything that’s happening right now at all. 

“Cody is…” But Ian trails off, closing his eyes and tilting his head back slightly, trying to escape the moment. 

Mickey squeezes his shoulder just a little bit tighter. “Cody is what?” 

“Mandy?” Fiona prompts, when Ian doesn’t say anything else. 

Mickey doesn’t know how Fiona is so sure that Mandy can finish Ian’s sentence, but he glances over at her all the same, because Fiona kind of always knows everything, and Mickey doesn’t doubt that she’s figured this – whatever _this_ is – out, too. 

“It wasn’t your place to tell him, Ian.” Is all Mandy says, glaring at the redhead. 

“I know.” Ian replies softly, sounding damn near heartbroken. 

“Ian?” Mickey says his name without meaning to, and he can hear how desperate the word comes out, but it’s not like he can help it. This is his _family_ , and he’s so completely in the dark right now that it’s making him panic. 

“Lip is Cody’s father.” Ian says the words so fast that they all kind of string together, and it takes Mickey a few beats to hear them, decipher what they mean. By the time he does, Ian is saying, “I’m so fucking sorry, Mick. I should of told you.” 

“You’re apologizing to _him_?” Mandy snaps, not giving Mickey even a second to wrap his head around what he’s just learned. 

“I’m so, so sorry,” Ian turns to Mandy, but doesn’t try to move away from Mickey; even reaches up and wraps his hand around the one Mickey’s still got on his shoulder. The brunette doesn’t pull away – is honestly too stunned to do _anything_. “I know I shouldn’t’ve…Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t think…I’m just so sorry, Mandy.” 

“How long have you known?” She demands, arms crossed over her chest and still glaring at her best friend with a deep coldness in her eyes that Mickey hasn’t seen in years. 

The heaviness of the moment doesn’t erase the fact that Mandy’s question is actually pretty damn important, and probably one of the first that Mickey would have asked, too, so he waits for an answer. 

“I mean, I didn’t for sure…” Ian stops himself with a deep sigh, bypassing the technicality. “I thought…I was pretty sure the day he was born.” 

Mickey leans back slightly to stare at the younger man. “ _What_?” 

“Really?” Debbie pipes up, and her voice reminds Mickey that the three of them aren’t having this conversation alone. “I didn’t figure it out until last month.” 

Her words are so casual that it’s almost surreal. And it’s obvious that he’s not the only one who thinks so. 

Mandy turns towards the younger redhead, mouth slightly open. “You what?” 

“I didn’t know it was a secret.” Debbie exclaims, eyes wide and innocent. “I just thought we weren’t gonna talk about it.” 

“I’ve known since he was a month old.” Kev’s still crouched on the ground near Lip, though no longer on top of him. He’s got his hand raised slightly, like a kid in a classroom hesitantly asking for attention he’s not entirely sure he wants, clearly only saying the words in an attempt to dissipate some of the tension of the moment. “But only ‘cause V told me.” 

Mandy’s expression of shock would be downright comical if the situation were anything other than what it is. Mickey probably will look back on it later and laugh, but right now he’s got too much other shit in his head vying for attention to even contemplate being amused.

“Debbie told me when she figured it out.” Carl adds to the confessions, shrugging slightly. “It was kinda obvious once I knew. They’ve got, like, the same face. I mean, Cody’s a baby and everything but…yeah.” He clears his throat and glances away, shuffling his feet a little. For as badass-thug as the kid thinks he is, he’s clearly terrified of being on the receiving end of Mandy’s rage. 

“Fiona?” Mandy turns towards the older woman, sounding almost desperate. 

Ian’s sister takes a deep breath, but speaks steadily. “I’ve spent my whole life raising these kids.” She nods towards Ian, Carl, Lip, and Debbie. “I know a Gallagher baby when I see one.” She pauses meaningfully. “I’m sorry, Mandy. I figured you’d talk about it when you were ready.” 

Mickey watches, somewhat dully, as his sister stares for a few more seconds at all of them, and then turns around abruptly and goes back into the house, slamming the front door behind her. 

It doesn’t take long, after her departure, for the rest of them to start talking and moving. Mickey, still more than a little in shock, turns towards Ian. “Were you ever gonna tell me that we’re raising your brother’s baby?” 

Ian cringes and closes his eyes again, so tight that his whole face scrunches up with it. “I’m sorry.” 

He sounds more regretful than Mickey’s heard him in a long time. It would be easy for him to get pissed about this – and maybe later he even will – but right now, after everything that’s happened already tonight, he can’t find it in himself to hurt the man he loves more than he already is. 

He moves forward, pressing his body against Ian’s firmly. “We can talk about it later.” He says softly. 

Ian opens his eyes, looking desperate. “You mad?” 

“I dunno.” Mickey says honestly, shrugging a little. “Let me take care of you, of all this,” he gestures with his free hand to Ian’s body, the bruises and blood littering it, “and then we can deal with everything else.” 

Ian’s responding smile is small but genuine. 

“My nephew is a fucking _Gallagher_?” Iggy finally reacts to everything that they’d just learned, his voice – loud and incredulous – cutting across everyone else’s. 

Mickey realizes that Iggy’s the only person here besides himself who hadn’t at least suspected the origins of Cody’s parentage. 

“Oh, relax,” Fiona responds to his outburst, rolling her eyes. Since their two families had begun their slow merge together, Iggy and Fiona have developed a unique bond, wherein they do almost nothing but quip sarcastically at each other. The familiarity of it in this moment manages to level some of the tension. “If either one of them could get pregnant,” she gestures vaguely to Ian and Mickey, “you’d have at least half a dozen by now.” 

Iggy’s face scrunches up, clearly put off at having to think about his brother’s sex life, or the hypothetical reality of men being pregnant. 

“Thanks for putting that into perspective.” Ian smiles tightly at his sister. 

“Uh, thanks for telling our alcoholic brother that he had a kid.” Fiona snaps back, not exactly serious, but definitely not joking, either. “What made you think that’d be a good idea?” 

“Maybe a question better left for another time,” Jimmy pipes up, finally standing from where he’d been kneeling on the ground, brushing dead grass and dirt off his most likely insanely expensive jeans. “Like when he’s not bleeding from the head.” 

Mickey eyes Ian sharply at the older man’s observation, noticing that there is, in fact, a steady stream of fresh blood seeping from a cut right above Ian’s eyebrow. His hair had been in the way before, but now that Mickey sees it, he gets his hands there almost immediately. Ian hisses at the touch, but doesn’t try to stop it. 

Mickey steps closer to him. “That looks pretty fucking deep, firecrotch.” He mutters, pushing Ian’s hair farther back to get a better look. “Can your ghetto-nurse do stitches?” 

“Yeah.” Ian says softly, not even arguing with Mickey’s assumption that he’ll need them. Once he gets used to it, he even leans a little into Mickey’s touch. “I’m sorry.” 

The older man sighs deeply. “Ay, would you stop it with that?” He undercuts his words by running his fingers gently through Ian’s hair, from his temple down to the base of his skull. “It’s alright.” 

“I should’ve told you.” Ian insists, eyes darting like he’s afraid to hold Mickey’s gaze for more than a few seconds at a time. “I know I should’ve. And I never should’ve told Lip. Mandy fucking hates me now and –”

“Hey, she’ll get over it.” Mickey interrupts. He hates seeing Ian like this. “She’s the one who made a baby with him. That shit ain’t on you, man.”

Ian closes his eyes and shakes his head, looks like he’s going to say something else, protest Mickey’s assurance in some way, but Carl’s voice interrupts him. “What are we gonna do with Lip?” 

They all glance over at the man who had caused all of this drama in the first place, still blissfully passed out in the front lawn. 

“Leave him there?” Iggy suggests, shrugging when everyone turns to look at him. 

“Turn him on his side at least,” V says in response, making her way back to the house just in time to hear Iggy. “If he pukes right now, he’ll die.” 

Kev dutifully shoves the younger man’s shoulder until he’s on his side. Lip doesn’t do more than groan at the shift. “We can carry him inside later.” He adds, shrugging at his wife. 

“Or leave him here.” Iggy says again, clearly harboring some deep hatred toward that particular Gallagher. Mickey can’t really blame him. Hell, Mickey probably hates the guy more than his brother ever could – more right now than he ever has before in his life. 

Mickey’s never liked Ian’s older brother much, but now that he knows this is the man directly responsible for Mandy’s life as a single mother, and Ian being hurt, not to mention the fact that he’s a Frank-wannabe level alcoholic, Mickey honestly wouldn’t care much if he dropped dead right now. In fact, the _only_ reason he’d care is because he knows, despite everything, _Ian_ would care. Iggy doesn’t even have that. So, yeah, maybe his brother actually _does_ hate Lip more than Mickey does. 

“We’ll get him later.” Fiona says with an air of finality, eyeing Jimmy pointedly – he and Kev will, more than likely, be the ones responsible for lugging him into the house. “V, can you make sure he’s not bleeding internally or anything at least?” The other woman nods dutifully and crouches down next to him, nurse supply bag at the ready. “Ian, get washed up a little and then she’ll take a look at you, too, okay?” Her words are for Ian, but she says them to Mickey, and the older man just nods. He’d been planning on taking care of Ian, anyway, but Fiona’s implication that it’s actually his job makes him feel…pretty damn good, if he’s being honest. 

For as increasingly _fucked up_ as their lives are after what had happened tonight, it’s nice to know that the burden of dealing with it falls on all of them equally. 

***

Ian sighs heavily, collapsing with a groan onto the closed lid of the toilet as soon as Mickey shuts the bathroom door behind them. He’s hunched over himself slightly, one hand pressed against his torso, and his eyes trained on the floor. 

“Hey,” Mickey says softly, walking the few steps over to him and crouching down, forcing Ian’s legs to widen slightly so he can get in-between them. He puts one hand on either of the redhead’s knees. “We gotta take care of you now, okay?” 

Ian doesn’t say anything, but his slight nod gives Mickey all the permission he needs. Slowly, he fingers the bottom of Ian’s shirt, tugging at the hem with clear intent. “Gonna take this off.” 

Ian works with him to remove the item of clothing, groaning again when he has to stretch his arms over his head. Mickey cringes in sympathy when he gets his first look at Ian, at all the overlapping patches of bright red skin, certain areas already turning dark brown. Mickey runs his fingers along the edges of the bruises, so gently that Ian barely even cringes. Then he works his way back up, to a spot on the redhead’s left shoulder where there are several deep scratches, probably from being dragged or pushed along the cement. He grits his teeth hard, but tries not to let Ian see his anger. For reasons that probably have a lot to do with that fucking asshole he’d lived with in New York, Ian doesn’t respond that well to anger anymore – at least not when he’s feeling vulnerable. 

To distract himself, Mickey moves away from him, grabbing a washcloth from the shelf above them and wetting it with warm water from the sink. Ian hisses through his teeth when Mickey moves back and presses it into his abraded flesh, but he doesn’t flinch away. 

Mickey cleans his wounds gently, remembering all the times he’s done this in the past – for his brothers when he was younger, and they’d get into it with Terry; for Mandy, when she used to come home all beat up after getting into fights with other girls at school; even for Ian, under radically different circumstances, when they were kids and spent a lot more of their time beating the shit out of people. 

Mickey drags the damp cloth over every part of Ian’s skin that looks like it needs it, rhythmically wiping away all traces of blood and dirt. Ian doesn’t say anything until Mickey reaches his forehead, the deep gash there that hasn’t stopped leaking blood this whole time. 

“Shit,” he hisses, as soon as Mickey touches it. 

“Suck it up, tough guy.” The brunette says gently, using his free hand to card through Ian’s hair on the other side of his head. “Gonna get infected if we don’t take care of it.” 

“I know.” He whispers, still not meeting Mickey’s gaze. “I’m sorry.” 

“Hey,” he says, only a trace of real warning in his tone, but it’s enough to make Ian flinch. “It’s okay,” he says, softer this time. “I’m not mad.” 

The words, which Mickey had said on a whim, instantly work to make Ian relax, his shoulders dropping noticeably in a release of tension. 

“This ain’t your fault, Ian.” Mickey says firmly, as soon as he reads the younger man’s reaction. “Your brother…” he trails off, sighing deeply because that’s a can of worms he doesn’t really want to get into right now. “Your brother’s fucked up,” he finishes simply. “but that ain’t on you.” 

“Cody…” Ian doesn’t complete the thought, but Mickey can tell that he’s running through a thousand of them, endless things that he feels like he’s to blame for. Mickey cuts him off before he can settle on any of them. 

“Cody’s _ours_ , Ian.” He says firmly, startling the redhead enough that he finally shifts his gaze to Mickey’s, his face betraying his surprise. 

“He’s…” 

“He’s Mandy’s,” Mickey jumps in, when Ian doesn’t finish right away, waving his hand dismissively. “I get that. But who’s been helping her raise the fucker since the day he was born, huh? Who deals with the crying and screaming and all that shit? All the _literal shit_?” Ian smiles a little at that, and Mickey counts it as a win. “Cody’s ours as much as you and your brothers and sister are Fiona’s.” 

Ian’s eyes go wide, clearly stunned that Mickey had made that comparison. Honestly, Mickey’s a little taken aback, too. He hadn’t known he’d felt so strongly about this – raising Cody – or that his brain had linked it up so determinedly to way the Gallaghers had grown up. 

He’s always been a little jealous of Ian and his family – that they’d had Fiona there to help them through all the shit in their lives, that they hadn’t had a parent like Terry. 

He can’t help but remember the psychiatrist he’d seen right before his prison sentence, and the way she’d poked and fucking prodded until Mickey had opened up and talked about everything – the Gallaghers, being gay, his own family, all of it. He hasn’t really thought about that in years, his conversation with her; had figured, once he’d dealt with coming out, and settled down with Ian again, that all of that shit would stay in the past where it belongs. 

But, turns out, shit like that happens in a cycle, and what he’d gone through growing up is kind of doomed to come back and infect the way he lives now. It’s not always bad, he supposes, but it is always there. 

“You made a call.” Mickey continues talking, trying to not let all those other thoughts overwhelm him. “About Cody and telling Lip.” He shrugs. “Maybe it wasn’t the best one, and I wish you woulda told me, but you had every fucking right to make it, Ian.” 

The redhead looks stunned. Mickey uses his distraction to finish cleaning the gash on his forehead. 

“I just wanted him to get better.” Ian whispers, staring at the ground again as Mickey’s wringing the washcloth out over the sink. The redhead’s words make him pause. “You know, I kept thinking that…no one can change the fact that I wound up like Monica.” 

“Ian…” Mickey starts, ready to say all the things he always does, when his boyfriend gets stuck in this loop of self-hatred over his disease, but the younger man cuts him off before he can even get started. 

“I know it’s not the same, that I’m different because I take the meds and everything,” he says this almost dismissively, but not in a bad way. Ian’s accepted that he’s better than his mother at this point, that the way he’s handling his life in light of being bipolar _makes_ him better, and Mickey takes a moment to feel proud of him. “But I’m always gonna have that. Lip just…he doesn’t have to turn out like Frank. This doesn’t have to be the rest of his life. And it just…it fucking kills me, man. It kills me that he’s like this now.” 

Mickey takes a deep, shaky breath, and tries to imagine how he’d feel if Iggy or Mandy woke up one day and started acting like Terry. If either of them ever raised a hand to Cody, made that kid afraid of them the way they’d all grown up afraid of their father. Mickey can’t even wrap his head around how that would make him feel – because _fury_ and _devastation_ don’t do enough to sum it up, not by a mile. 

“That’s why you told him.” Mickey says softly, finishing Ian’s thought for him. 

The redhead looks up with eyes that are wide and wet, shinning with unshed tears. Mickey thinks he sees the correlation that had just been drawn, because his expression morphs into a whole different kind of sorrow. “Yeah.” He breathes. “I miss my brother, Mick.” 

There’s not much he can say, when Ian puts it like that. Mickey understands why his boyfriend had done what he’d done in telling Lip about Cody. And maybe Mandy and the rest of the Gallaghers will be angry about it for a while, but Mickey just can’t be. Not with the way Ian’s looking at him right now like someone had just crushed his soul. 

Mickey moves forward and wraps his arms around the younger man’s shoulders. Ian’s still sitting down, and the height difference allows Ian to press his face into Mickey’s chest, taking the offered comfort eagerly. He wraps his arms around Mickey’s waist and nuzzles into his shirt, sneaking his fingers under the worn fabric to rest on the bare skin at the small of his back. 

Mickey closes his eyes and leans closer, running both his hands through Ian’s hair, gentle and soothing, from his temples to the base of his skull, because that motion is so familiar at this point, something that he’s been doing for so many years, that he finds comfort in it just as much as Ian does.

He’s not sure how long they stay together like that, quietly just leaning against each other, breathing together, but eventually they’re pulled from the moment by a gentle knock on the door. 

“You boys decent?” V asks as she pushes her way into the bathroom. “Doesn’t matter much if you’re not.” She says, before either of them gets a chance to answer. “Nothin’ I haven’t seen before.” 

Mickey doesn’t pull away from Ian even once she’s in the room with them, and she pauses briefly to stare at the way they’re holding each other. 

“Fuck.” She breathes, shaking herself out of it and setting her nurse crap on the edge of the sink. “You assholes are goddamn fucking adorable, you know that?” 

“Shut up with that shit.” Mickey grumbles, making no effort to move away from his boyfriend. “Don’t ever call me adorable again.”

Ian snorts lightly, the sound muffled slightly by Mickey’s sternum. 

“Don’t fucking encourage her.” He warns the redhead, playing idly with the hair at the base of his neck, not meaning his annoyance one bit. Well, not to Ian, anyway. V would be getting kicked out of the room right about now if she weren’t here for a damn good reason. 

“I hate to break up this moment.” She sighs softly, sounding a little more serious. “Truly. But I gotta take a look at your boyfriend now, Milkovich. You gonna let me get at him?” 

Mickey reluctantly moves to the side, keeping one hand wrapped around Ian’s forearm as she begins her examination of his injuries. 

By the time she’s done, Ian’s got six stiches in his forehead, his ribs are wrapped tightly – “not broken,” V declares, “but you’re gonna wanna keep an eye on ‘em, alright? And go to the ER if you have any trouble breathing. I mean it.” – and at least a dozen other smaller cuts and bruises have been methodically disinfected and bandaged. 

Right as V is finishing up, Fiona pops in to give Ian some clean clothes – a shirt that looks like one of Jimmy’s and some sweatpants that are probably old ones of Ian’s, given the length – and stays standing in the doorway after she hands them over. 

“He looks even worse than you do.” she informs them, talking about Lip. “They just got him inside. You guys really did a number on each other.” 

“It was a long time coming.” Ian sighs. He sounds so exhausted, on the cusp of passing out right then and there. Mickey’s not really surprised, with how emotionally and physically draining this evening has been. 

“When he wakes up, if he stays sober for long enough, me and Debbie are going to talk to him about going to rehab.” Fiona tells him, already looking like she’s dreading that conversation. Ian doesn’t say anything, so she keeps talking. “Jimmy’s willing to pay for it. Or, I know Lip had a professor that offered, too. Either way, I think that’s the best option for him.” 

“Yeah.” Ian sighs but nods, snaking one arm around Mickey’s waist and digging his fingers almost too-tightly into his hipbone. Mickey doesn’t pull away. “I just hope he agrees.”

“Me, too.” Fiona admits. 

When neither of them say anything for a while after that, and even V starts shifting back and forth, looking uncomfortable with the intensity of the moment, Mickey interjects. “Where are Mandy and Cody at?” 

“Sleeping in Ian’s old room.” Fiona tells them. “I tried talking to her earlier but she didn’t really say much.” She shrugs. “It’s been a hard night, guys. I think it’d be better if everyone just got some sleep. Nothing else is gonna get resolved right now.” 

Ian’s biting his lip hard, and Mickey lifts a hand to knead at the base of his skull, trying to distract him. “She’s right, man.” He says softly to his boyfriend. “Let’s just go home.” 

“What about Cody?” Ian asks, looking between both of them. 

“He should probably stay here,” Fiona says gently. “I’ll be here. If Mandy’s upset, I’ll take care of him.” 

Mickey can tell Ian’s not thrilled with that decision, and honestly, he feels it a little bit himself, too: that reluctance to leave the kid here. Not because he doesn’t trust Mandy to take care of him, or even because he doesn’t think Cody needs to be with his mom, because Mickey knows he does – it’s just that, after everything that had gone down tonight, a part of him really wants to be near the baby. Hold him. He doesn’t even understand that desire – has never really felt such an inherent need to simply be close to anyone like that before, except Ian – but it’s there, gnawing away right under his skin. 

He lets it go, though. Because right now, Cody is safe and exactly where he should be, and he and Ian really do need to get some fucking sleep. 

“Yeah, yeah that’s good.” He forces himself to say, pressing his fingers just a little more firmly into Ian’s neck. 

Fiona looks relieved at Mickey’s words, and even more so when Ian nods his – obviously reluctant – consent. 

Once they get back to their house, Mickey and Ian make a beeline for the bedroom, and the redhead collapses onto the mattress the second Mickey pulls the covers down far enough. Mickey turns off the light and settles down behind the younger man, wrapping an arm around his waist – switching the position they usually fall asleep in with Ian’s encouragement. The redhead immediately threads his and Mickey’s fingers together, bringing their joined hands up to rest right above his heart. 

Seconds before he falls asleep, voice rough with exhaustion and emotion, Ian whispers, “This.” 

“Us.” Mickey breathes back, nuzzling into the skin at the base of his neck, ghosting a kiss over the faded freckles there. “Always.”

___________________________________________________

**Next Time:**

_Cody looks so much like Mandy when he laughs – and so much like Mickey when he scowls. When he’s concentrating on something, as hard as a three-year-old ever can, that’s when Ian thinks he looks the most like Lip. Fiona says he looks like Carl when he’s sleeping. He’s got a birthmark on his elbow that’s identical to one Debbie and Monica share, and the slight curve of his nose reminds them all of Iggy. It’s almost magical, how so many pieces of their families have combined together into this one tiny person._

___________________________________________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can probably tell from the preview, the next chapter features a considerable time jump (three years). I hate to say it, but we're officially _very_ near the end of this story. The tentative outline is that the next chapter will be the last one, the chapter after that will be the epilogue, and then I'm debating a bonus "really, I promise THIS is it" last- _last_ chapter of 'deleted scenes'. Basically just shit I wrote during the making of this story that didn't fit in anywhere else. But that's up in the air because a lot of the content I have in that word document might make it into the epilogue as flashbacks. Either way, there's an end in the very foreseeable future and I feel so bittersweet about it because yes, I want to finish this, but at the same time, I want to stay in this universe forever.


	17. Dream Me a California Sunset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I mentioned lately that I love every single person who has commented on, left kudos, praised, and enjoyed this story? Because I do, I really do love you guys so much <3

**\--XVII—**

__

_Dream Me a California Sunset_

***

**Three Years Later**

***

“Give me one good reason why not.” Mandy demands, absently shifting Cody from one hip to the other as the little boy struggles get out of his mother’s hold. 

Mickey sighs heavily, bending down with the miniature broom and dustpan – something that Ian had insisted on buying a couple years back when he’d been between jobs and on a domestic, Mr. Mom kick – and sweeping the last remaining shards of broken glass off the floor. 

It’s Mandy’s fault the damn bottle had broken in the first place – who waltzes through the door and announces, with absolutely no preamble, _“You and Ian need to go get married.”_ and doesn’t expect shit to hit the ground in shock? 

“I didn’t say I had a good reason why not.” Mickey reminds her, ignoring her obnoxiously triumphant little, _“hah!”_. He dumps the broken glass into the garbage. “I said, _what the fuck?_ ” 

“Well?” She presses, bypassing his annoyance in her quest for an answer to the original question.

“Well,” Mickey mocks, doing one last final sweep for any wayward beer bottle fragments. “What the fuck?” He repeats. “Where the fuck did that even come from?” 

“Fuck!” Cody pipes up, clapping happily in Mandy’s arms. 

The two older Milkovichs share a quick glance, but dutifully ignore the kid’s enthusiastic repeating of the word. Apparently, if they ignore it when he repeats shit like that, he’s less likely to keep doing it. Ian had read about it on some parenting website – something about not enforcing behavior by reacting to it. 

Mickey supposes an alternative would be to _stop fucking swearing_ around the kid, but they’d tried that when he was two, and had first started repeating everything they said, and it hadn’t lasted very long. 

“Come on,” Mandy says dramatically, finally setting Cody down, now that the potential hazard of him slicing the bottom of his foot open is gone. “You guys have been together for so long, it doesn’t even make sense that you’re _not_ married.” 

“Are you trying to win a bet or something?” He demands, narrowing his gaze suspiciously. “Do you and the fucking Gallaghers have a pool going about this or some shit?” 

“No,” she says, a little too forcefully, then pauses meaningfully. “I mean we _did_.” She admits, shrugging when Mickey’s eyes go wide. “But we all lost when you guys didn’t get hitched last year. Carl had money on October, and he was the latest one.” 

Mickey takes a moment to consider that. “Doesn’t that mean he wins by default?” 

“We called it a draw after the new year.” She explains, taking a juice box out of the fridge when Cody tugs on the hem of her shirt and asks for one. She grabs one for herself, too, because nothing about being a grown ass adult with a full-time job and a kid has ever stopped Mandy from enjoying the simpler things in life. “Thanks for costing me eighty bucks, by the way.” 

“Don’t bet on my fucking life.” Mickey bites back, more amused than annoyed. 

“Get fucking married already and I wouldn’t have to.” 

“Daddies wedding?” Cody asks innocently, standing between them with a quizzically quirked eyebrow, lips already stained purple from the grape juice. 

Mickey points down at his nephew, eyes on his sister. “You taught him that?” 

Mandy just shrugs, wearing the exact same innocent expression as her son.

“Don’t teach him that.” He says, knowing perfectly well that his demand will fall on deaf ears. 

The three of them – Mickey, Mandy, and Ian: the dynamic parenting trio, as Fiona likes to call them – had agreed early on that they would let Cody call Mickey and Ian whatever he wanted. They mostly refer to themselves as _uncle_ , in front of other people and when it’s just them and the kid alone, and sometimes Cody does, too, but a lot of the time he calls one or both of them _daddy_. 

Mickey’s not even sure where he’d gotten that from (though he suspects Iggy’s at least partially responsible), but it doesn’t really bother him. Pretty soon, Cody will be old enough to realize just how fucking weird his family is – might as well let the kid see it the way he wants for as long as he’s innocent enough to. 

“Y’know, there are legal benefits,” Mandy keeps talking, having clearly prepared a list of some kind. Mickey rolls his eyes, but reluctantly sits down across from her at the kitchen table, keeping half an eye on Cody as the toddler wanders about around them. 

“Jimmy used that on Fiona.” Mickey immediately cuts her off. “And if either me or Ian were as loaded as him, maybe that’d be a valid point, but no one’s gonna be swooping in trying to get rich off us if we kick the fucking bucket.” 

Mandy scowls, but has to concede his point. None of them are as broke as they had been growing up, and he and Ian actually do have a decent bank account these days, but it’s still firmly in the realm of lower-middle class. 

“What about standing up for your rights as gay men in America?” Mandy continues. “Don’t you have any pride?” 

“Ian’s the one with the soapbox.” Mickey snorts. “Try that shit on him.” 

“Huh.” Mandy looks thoughtful. “So, if _Ian_ wanted to get married, you would?” 

Mickey freezes, unable to meet his sister’s gaze. “No.” He chokes out a moment later, and it’s such a weak lie that even Cody giggles at him. It might be unrelated, as the kid’s playing with some light-up toy Debbie had bought him last week, but the timing works out in Mandy’s favor. 

“Interesting.” She nods, mostly to herself. “I’m gonna keep that in mind.” 

She gets up suddenly and walks out of the kitchen, leaving Mickey struggling for something to shout at her retreating form in the wake of her revelation. All he can come up with is, “If you win a bet because of this, I want a fucking cut.” 

Cody giggles again. “Fuck!” 

***

Later that night, Ian laughs outright when Mickey tells him what Mandy had said. 

“Well, she’s not wrong.” The redhead points out, shrugging out of his EMT shirt and tossing it on the chair in the corner of the room. 

Mickey narrows his gaze. “Which part?” 

“You’d totally get hitched if I wanted to.” He says, mostly teasing as he collapses backwards onto the bed, sprawling his arms and legs over every goddamn inch of it. Mickey gets distracted for a second, because Ian’s naked save his boxers, and it’s been almost three days since they’ve had sex properly – settling for early morning blowjobs and rushed shower handjobs in the wake of busy schedules and a three-year-old that might be the first human being on the planet who doesn’t actually need sleep to function. 

He keeps staring at Ian – because that’s his fucking right, dammit – but snorts softly. “You wish.” 

Ian sits up suddenly, leaning back on his elbows so he can look at Mickey, the muscles in his biceps flexing enticingly. “What if I did?” 

Mickey has to blink a few times at the words, not sure if he’s understanding them correctly. “The fuck’s that mean, tough guy?” He means for the question to come out with irritation and challenge, but his breath hitches in the middle, and he knows he falls short of either. 

Ian shrugs slightly, looking a little uncertain, but mostly just curious. “I mean, maybe it’s something we should consider.” 

Mickey stares at him for another few seconds, but then huffs and looks away, trying not to let the other man see that his heart’s beating too fast, all of a sudden, or that his hands are shaking. “We did consider it.” 

He looks back over just in time to see Ian’s face go from confused to exasperated. “Talking about it one night when you were drunk and I was stoned doesn’t really count.” Ian tells him. 

Mickey shrugs. “Don’t see why not.”

“Well, for one, I didn’t even think you remembered that until just now.” Ian eyes him pointedly. Mickey stays silent. “Plus, that was two years ago.” 

“Still counts.” Mickey mumbles. Because to him, it absolutely does. To this day, he can’t remember how the topic had come up that night, but he does remember that _he’d_ been the one who had said no. 

He’d had been straddling Ian’s lap, laughing so hard that his face was bright red, and his boyfriend hadn’t exactly taken offence – he really had been spectacularly lit – but Mickey can still feel that gnawing sense of doubt. The fear that if he’d agreed to _that_ , under those circumstances, and Ian didn’t remember the next day – or worse, didn’t want to in the light of sobriety – that Mickey wouldn’t have been able to handle it. So, he’d said no and laughed the whole thing off, because as drunk as he’d been, that had felt like the only option. And Ian hadn’t ever brought it up after that. Then again, neither has he. 

Ian stares at him for a long time, so long that Mickey starts to get fidgety, shifting his weight back and forth and feeling quite suddenly like he’s on display. He’s about to say something else – probably something he’d regret later, given the sudden wave of insecurity that’s settled over him – but Ian, thankfully, beats him to it. 

“C’mere,” the redhead demands softly, gesturing to the bed and scooting over slightly, so Mickey has room to lay down next to him. 

The older man does, because being next to Ian calms him down, and laying at his side settles almost every single nerve that had started to fray in the midst of this conversation. 

Ian gets his hands on him as soon as he’s close enough; Mickey sighs quietly and leans into the touch. It really has been too long since they’ve had time for this. He’s fucking missed this guy – his guy – and his body reacts right along with his mind, settling down as Ian trails his fingers up and over Mickey’s side. 

“Missed you,” Ian mutters, leaning so he’s half on top of Mickey, his weight a reassurance. It doesn’t really surprise him that Ian had echoed Mickey’s own thoughts. 

The older man melts into it when the redhead starts sucking at the skin near the base of his throat. “Me, too.” He sighs, tilting his head back slightly to give his boyfriend more room. 

One of Ian’s hands comes up to cup the side of his face, and it doesn’t take long for their lips to meet in a kiss, one of Mickey’s arms wrapping around Ian’s waist and pulling him until they’re both on their sides, hips slotted together. Mickey hums his contentment, unashamed. “Wanna get on me?” 

“Know I do.” Ian breathes, tickling Mickey’s chin. “Been too long.” 

Mickey reaches out and wraps his fingers around Ian’s cock, stroking it a few times over his boxers just to watch the way Ian’s eyes go wide, breath hitching beautifully. Mickey smirks, biting briefly at his boyfriend’s shoulder. 

“Cocky little shit,” Ian accuses when he sees Mickey’s expression, eyes glinting playfully. In one fluid motion, Ian flips them around, getting Mickey on his back with his legs spread wide enough for the redhead to settle down between them. 

Mickey gasps slightly from the manhandling, but doesn’t try to fight it; he’d been waiting for it, wanting it. 

Ian stops briefly to look down at him, face going soft for a moment with such blatant fondness that Mickey feels a lurch in his stomach – the good kind, exhilarating, like going down a rollercoaster (which, thanks to some raffle at Mandy’s work last summer and Ian’s persistent begging, Mickey has actually experienced). “Gorgeous boy.” Ian mumbles, carding a hand through his hair. 

Mickey feels heat creep up the back of his neck, but has long since gotten used to words like that. Without prompting, he lifts his arms up over his head, gripping the slats of the headboard behind him. “Like this.” 

Ian’s eyes go dark, arousal taking over his features. “Yeah.” He agrees, moving his own hand briefly to wrap around Mickey’s wrists and squeeze firmly. Mickey’s hips cant up of their own accord, because even though he’d done it himself, his body thinks it’s being given an order, and he reacts shamelessly. 

Ian makes quick work of stripping himself and Mickey out of their boxers, getting them both naked in a matter of seconds, and then settling down again firmly between the brunette’s legs. Instead of going for the lube, as Mickey had been expecting, Ian just presses against him, chest to chest, and continues kissing. He traces his tongue slowly over Mickey’s lips, pushing into his mouth with an ease that doesn’t at all match up with their current level of desperation. 

“C’mon,” Mickey whines after several long minutes of that, thrusting his cock against the redhead’s hip. “Get on me already.” 

“Patience.” Ian reprimands, smiling teasingly at Mickey’s pleading, swiping his thumb over the older man’s bottom lip enticingly. 

Mickey turns his head and catches the digit in his mouth, sucking on it hard just to see Ian’s control falter. Predictably, the redhead’s expression darkens at the feel of Mickey’s tongue. “Don’t wanna be patient.” He pulls off just enough to say. “Haven’t fucked in like a week. Want you in my ass.” 

Ian looks down at him fondly for a beat, but then cocks his head to the side with a wicked expression. “But I wanna play.” 

Mickey groans, both from impatience and _fuck yes fuck Ian_ , “Yeah,” he decides, cock twitching its interest. “Okay.” 

With a triumphant grin (and absolutely no surprise, because Mickey’s never said no to a request like that), Ian begins his decent down the other man’s body. He stops to lick and kiss and suck almost too hard (Mickey fucking loves it) at various patches of milk-white skin, until he reaches the brunette’s waist. He ghosts his mouth over Mickey’s cock, teasing, with his thumbs pressed into the jut of his hipbones so he can’t arch into the sensations. 

After a second or two of that, with Mickey whining high in the back of his throat, Ian moves again, this time enough to get a pillow under Mickey’s hips and push his legs apart even farther. The older man knows what’s coming before Ian begins, but that doesn’t stop the sharp exhale or the long, drawn out moan from escaping him the second Ian’s lips find the curve of his ass. 

Fuck, it’s been a while since they’ve done this. For as much as they both love it – Mickey’s a goddamn slut for having his ass eaten out, and Ian always gets painfully hard, watching him fall apart under the ministrations – they usually reserve this kind of play for when they’re totally alone – the rare occasions when they have the house to themselves, or the few times they’ve managed to spend a couple days at a hotel. 

Once, by a series of events never likely to happen again in their lifetimes, every single member of the Gallagher family was out of their house for a night, and Fiona had asked them to come over and make sure no one (Frank) broke in and robbed the place; Ian had bent him over the back of the couch that night and made him come just from his tongue and two fingers in his ass, massaging his prostrate. To this day, it’s one of the most intense orgasms Mickey has ever had. 

Just thinking about it puts him even more on edge, and within seconds he’s moving his legs, planting his feet on the mattress to give his boyfriend more room. 

“Eager,” Ian comments, and it would have been teasing if not for the desperation. Sometimes Mickey thinks Ian gets more out of making him fall apart than he does his own pleasure. It works out pretty damn well, if you ask him, because Mickey’s kind of got a thing about making Ian feel good, when they’re like this, and most of the time all he has to do, to ensure the redhead’s happiness, is lie back and enjoy what’s being done to him.

Tonight, it doesn’t take him long at all to slip into that headspace where all he wants to do is be good for Ian, make him happy by doing whatever the redhead wants. The shift is subtle, but they’ve been doing this for so long by now that Ian senses it almost immediately. He glances up from his spot between Mickey’s legs, breath shallow and ghosting over Mickey’s hole, big hands pulling him apart, eyes hooded. “Good boy,” he whispers, and Mickey shudders. 

The first touch of Ian’s tongue against him makes Mickey cry out, and he immediately wants to bring his hands down, try to muffle himself. Ian must have been waiting for it, because he pulls back slightly as soon as Mickey’s fingers twitch. “Uh-uh,” he shakes his head, tone taking on that dominating quality he gets, and Mickey whimpers. “Keep those there, Mick. Wanna hear you.” 

Mickey thinks about his sister’s bedroom and how close it is to theirs. He wants to protest, but at the same time, it’s not like Mandy’s never heard them fuck before. And Cody’s already asleep –the kid, for as much as he doesn’t sleep sometimes, always conks out like the dead whenever he does. “Yeah,” he hears himself say, because it’s not like he’s ever going to say no to Ian when he gets like this. “Yeah, okay.” 

Ian smirks knowingly and moves his head back down, nipping sharply at the sensitive skin of Mickey’s inner thigh – the brunette hisses, but rocks into the sensation rather than away from it – and then puts his mouth right on Mickey’s hole. 

The older man moans loud and long, thrusting against Ian the same way he would if they were fucking, hips rolling with the sensations. Ian’s hands stay firm on Mickey’s ass cheeks, using his grip to guide him, pull him forward and press him back however he pleases. He doesn’t stop until there’s a trail of saliva dripping down Mickey’s crack; it should be gross, Mickey thinks, but it just reminds him of the feeling of lube and come, of fucking, of every perfectly obscene thing Ian’s ever done to him, and he arches into it, craving more, messier, harder. 

Ian licks a long stripe all the way up, and Mickey’s breath starts coming out in short, sharp little bursts, until Ian uses the very tip of his tongue to press inside and Mickey stops breathing at all. The redhead’s tongue wiggles and presses until Mickey can’t concentrate on anything else – he can tell his fingers are going numb from how tight he’s gripping the headboard, and that his skin is flushed and hot, but he doesn’t care, can’t care, because Ian’s _mouth_. Ian’s mouth is pulling him apart at the seams with every lick and wiggle and suck. 

“Hey now,” Ian pulls back suddenly, and Mickey narrows his eyes down at him. Ian moves one hand away from his ass and presses it firmly against the center of the older man’s chest. “Gotta breathe for me, baby.” 

Mickey exhales hard almost instantly. “Good boy,” the redhead says softly, dropping his mouth to Mickey’s balls and sucking on one and then the other softly, making him groan. “Love you desperate like this,” he says, mouth on Mickey’s hole again, teasing the rim with gentle kitten licks in between words. “Doing so good for me, Mick, letting me hear you. Bet you want my hand on your dick, huh? Could probably come like this.” 

Mickey nods hard, panting, and thrusts his hips as much as Ian’s continued grip allows. “Please.” He chokes, hoping that if he begs, Ian will let him. He’s already so close, can feel his orgasm building, his balls tight with it. “Please, Ian, I wanna.” 

“I know,” the redhead says gently, “you will, but not yet, okay?” He says it with sympathy, like he’s not the one in control of Mickey’s body right now. 

Ian continues to torture him like that for a while, lapping at his hole over and over again until Mickey’s tossing his head back and forth on the pillow, desperate and wanting. Without meaning to, barely even aware of what he’s doing anymore, one of his hands leaves the headboard and he reaches down with it, trailing his fingers over his hip, wanting to touch his cock so fucking _bad_. 

Ian catches him before he can get there, wrapping his fingers around his wrist firmly. “What do you think you’re doing there, huh, Mick?” He asks, voice firm. 

Mickey looks down at him and whimpers without meaning to, biting at his lip. “Sorry,” he rushes to say, because he’s usually so good at doing what Ian wants, and the redhead’s disapproving gaze causes his stomach to clench uncomfortably. “Sorry.” 

Ian’s eyes soften, but Mickey still feels like he’s done something wrong; he hates making Ian angry or disappointed, and he feels the immediate urge to make it up to him. His wrist slips from the younger man’s grip and he moves it quickly back to where it had been above his head. “I’ll be good.” 

The redhead smiles gently, but his voice is still stern when he says, “I told you not to touch yourself, baby.” 

Mickey whines again, desperate. “I didn’t,” he insists. “I won’t, I promise. I’ll be good for you.” 

Ian’s eyes go dark at his words. Mickey usually doesn’t say things like that – they have a pretty set dynamic when they’re like this, and it’s almost always only Ian who says those things. “I know you will,” the redhead assures, carding his fingers through Mickey’s hair with such unhidden fondness, his gaze bright with affection, that it does wonders to calm the butterflies in Mickey’s stomach. “But I think you need some help, alright?” He takes a moment to suck a hard bruise into the jut of Mickey’s hipbone, making the older man arch and cry out, because that’s one of the most sensitive spots on his body. “Want me to help you be good for me, Mickey?” 

He doesn’t know what Ian means, exactly, but it doesn’t matter; he nods fiercely, over and over again, until Ian’s moving away from him, reaching for the nightstand next to their bed on his side and opening the drawer. Mickey lets his head fall back and closes his eyes, flexing his fingers and breathing harshly. 

His eyes shoot open when he feels Ian grab his waist. “Turn over for me.” He says, and when Mickey sees what his boyfriend has pulled out of their toy collection, he can’t obey fast enough. 

They’d agreed a long time ago that actual handcuffs were a no-go in the bedroom – not with the various negative associations they both have with them – but Mickey loves being restrained, so Ian had found a set of leather cuffs online. He leans over Mickey’s back now to secure them around his wrists, the hard line of his cock pressing firmly into the older man’s ass cheek as he buckles them into place, and then pulls his arms through one of the gaps in the headboard to secure them together. 

Mickey immediately humps himself into the mattress, cock throbbing and almost painfully hard from the rush of being tied up. Ian sees the movement and gets his hands on his hips, pulling him until he’s on his knees, dick bobbing free, away from any potential source of stimulation. Mickey’s panting wildly, thrusting into nothing, and moaning again and again, begging Ian without words. 

Fuck, he loves this. Loves being completely at Ian’s mercy, especially in this position. “Look so pretty all tied up like this, Mick,” Ian whispers, sounding truly awed. He gets back behind him and pulls his ass cheeks apart again. This time he doesn’t tease, just pushes his tongue firmly into Mickey’s hole as soon as it’s exposed to him. The brunette shudders and moans, pulling against his restraints just to feel the lack of give, remind himself that he’s not going anywhere, not until Ian lets him. “I got you, baby. Gonna take care of you.” 

And he does. Ian feasts on Mickey’s ass until the older man is reduced to nothing but whimpers and whines, legs shaking from the effort of maintaining his position, thrusting back weakly with the limited leverage he does have even as his thighs scream at the exertion.

Finally, after what feels like hours, Ian pulls his mouth away from Mickey’s ass, wiping his chin – messy with spit – on the back of Mickey’s leg as he grabs at the lube. The snap of the lid makes the older man exhale slowly. “Yeah?” He can’t help but ask. He feels like he’s been waiting for days. He feels high. 

“Yeah,” Ian confirms, running one hand up his back, kneading briefly at his shoulder. “You did so good for me, Mickey, waiting for me. Deserve to get fucked long and hard, just how you like.” Mickey whines, low and grateful. “Such a good boy for me.” 

Ian had spent so long opening him up with his tongue that Mickey barely even feels the press of his first finger, and Ian must be able to tell, because he adds a second one almost immediately, scissoring him open to get him ready, before quirking the digits just right and nailing his prostrate. 

Mickey exhales contentedly, stretching his arms out as far as he can and tilting his ass back even more, trying to spur Ian on. The redhead chuckles fondly, placing a chaste kiss on Mickey’s right ass cheek before giving in, giving Mickey exactly what he wants by pressing down against him almost too hard, the stimulation overwhelming and so fucking perfect. 

Mickey rocks into it, back and forth, as his dick leaks onto the comforter underneath him. “Please, Ian, please,” he hears himself begging, how choked and desperate he sounds, but he doesn’t care. His ass is clenching hard around Ian’s fingers, wishing it were his cock. “Want you. Fuck. You’re fucking killing me. Gonna come like this if you don’t get in me soon.” 

Ian responds to his words with a sharp slap against his ass, which causes Mickey to gasp and thrust back hard, pulling against the cuffs locked around his wrists. “Again,” he manages to choke, because Ian doesn’t do this often, but it gets Mickey fired up every single goddamn time he does, without fail. Ian slaps his other cheek just as hard, and Mickey groans loudly. 

Maybe sensing that he won’t be able to hold out for much longer, it’s only a few seconds after that when Ian pulls his fingers away. Mickey’s protesting grunt earns him another two sharp smacks, so he makes the noise again and relishes the resulting sting.

His ass is hot when Ian finally pushes into him, his cock stretching him out, filling him in a way that nothing else – not Ian’s tongue, his fingers, any of their toys (as good as all of those things are) – ever can. And Mickey sighs deeply in relief. A feeling of absolute fullness overtakes him as soon as Ian’s all the way inside of him, and it’s more than just a literal thing. Ian being inside of him makes him feel complete – settled and absolute in a way nothing else ever does, or could. He’ll probably never say it out loud, but he doesn’t think he needs to at this point, anyway. Ian feels it, too. 

Because as soon as he’s inside of Mickey, and starts thrusting shallowly, building a rhythm slowly, the brunette can feel his boyfriend’s control slipping. As easy as it is for Ian to ignore his own body while he’s playing with Mickey, as soon as it stops and the fucking starts in earnest, he loses himself in it. Like he can’t help himself. And Mickey loves that. Almost as much as he loves Ian focused solely on him, because when the redhead starts fucking him hard, making all those noises because of how good it feels, Mickey feels proud. Feels like, he’s doing that for Ian. He’s making him fall apart at the seams, just by liking what he likes, and that’s a powerful thing. 

Mickey’s orgasm builds fast. Ian’s thrusts are hard and long, just like he’d promised, and he’d spent so long working up to it, teasing him, that Mickey knows he won’t last long. The metal rings on the cuffs clatter against the bedframe as Mickey pulls at them, trying to leverage himself even higher, canting his hips back and then forward. “Touch me.” He pleads. “Need to come. I need…have to…” 

Ian doesn’t keep him waiting this time, immediately wrapping his hand around Mickey’s dick, stroking him firmly, perfectly in time with his thrusts. “C’mon, Mick,” he grunts, out of breath from his own impending release. Mickey knows he’ll try to hold off until Mickey comes first, he almost always does, and today it definitely won’t be a problem. “Come for me, baby.” 

And Mickey does. In barely any time at all, Mickey’s shooting hard all over Ian’s fist, back bowing, and groaning deeply. “Fuck, Ian, fuck, fuck,” he pants. Ian keeps his hand around him, milking the very last of his orgasm out of him until he’s oversensitive and flinching away. Then Ian uses both hands to grip Mickey’s hips and plow into him, fast and brutal, until he finds his own release. It doesn’t take long, and by the time he does, shooting his load deep in Mickey’s ass, marking him there, the older man is shuddering from the stimulation, the muscles in his thighs quivering tellingly. 

“Good boy,” Ian says, as soon as he catches his breath. “So fucking good for me, baby, did so good.” 

Mickey whimpers quietly when Ian pulls out, shivering at the slow drip of come trickling down the crack of his ass. “Yeah,” Ian soothes, running his hands up and down Mickey’s back, “relax, Mick.” 

Mickey does, letting his body go boneless as he collapses onto the mattress. Ian reaches up and unhooks the cuffs, gently bringing his arms down, rubbing deeply at Mickey’s shoulders when he cringes slightly from the shift. 

Once they’re settled with Mickey’s head on Ian’s chest, the redhead moves his arms so he can unbuckle the leather from around his wrists. Mickey shivers at the feeling of them being removed, experiencing a kind of dull emptiness not dissimilar to how he feels when Ian pulls out of him – he knows it has to happen, but a part of him wants to keep feeling it, even though they’re done. He loves taking Ian’s cock, they both know that, but sometimes he just wants to be _Ian’s_ – the way he is while they’re fucking – for a little longer than he gets to. 

Once the restraints are off of him – Ian having tossed them on the ground to be put away later – Mickey feels cold, and turns so he can burrow into his boyfriend. He knows that this sensation will fade, and he’s used to it at this point, but right now all he wants is Ian’s touch, Ian’s voice in his ear, telling him he’s good. He’s lucky, because the redhead knows all of that, and delivers in spades. 

“Love you like this, Mick,” he’s whispering, trailing his lips across Mickey’s temple. “Love when you let go for me. Makes me so fucking happy. Thank you for being so good for me.” Mickey hums softly and curls his hands up over Ian’s shoulders. The younger man wraps his arms around him in turn, pulling him even closer against his chest. “Did so good, baby. Such a good boy.”

Later, once Mickey is calmer, Ian brings him a bottle of water and a turkey sandwich, which Mickey splits with him. They eat in bed because they can’t be bothered to move to a different room. Mickey feels content and cared for, in a way he’d never known, not in his whole life, before Ian fucking Gallagher had become a part of it. 

“I love you.” He tells the other man that night, right before he switches off the light, preparing to go to bed. 

Ian turns around and smiles at him, calm and sure. “Love you, too, Mick.”

***

Ian doesn’t have to work the next day, so he’s in the living room watching cartons with Cody while Mickey’s getting ready to head over to the bar. It’s earlier than his shift usually starts, but ever since Kev had found out that Mickey’s pretty good with numbers, it’s been his job to keep track of the finances – a task Mickey would have protested much harder had it not come with a substantial raise – and today is his monthly inventory/bookkeeping/income tracking/basically just boring shit day. 

“Hey, I’m taking Cody to the park later.” Ian tells him out of nowhere, making Mickey pause from where he’s looking through the hall closet for his shoes. 

It’s not like it’s especially odd for Ian to tell him what he plans on spending the day doing, or for him to spend it outside with Cody (Ian’s trying to corrupt the kid early, make him love sports and outdoor activities in general), but the way he says it, a little too casually and almost hesitant, makes Mickey glance over at him with a quirked eyebrow. “Okay?” 

“Lip’s gonna be there.” Ian finishes, keeping his eyes trained on Mickey. 

The older man clenches his jaw, but nods. “Okay.” 

Ian sighs deeply, clearing sensing Mickey’s ill-hidden annoyance. “He’s been sober for a year and a half, Mick.” The redhead says, like Mickey isn’t already aware, like Mandy doesn’t play that card in their arguments about the older Gallagher brother every chance she gets. 

“Yeah.” He says shortly, shrugging. “Fine.” 

“Yeah, fine,” Ian repeats, rolling his eyes and turning back around, facing the TV. “Just thought I’d let you know.” 

Mickey sighs heavily, a little concerned that Ian hadn’t even tried to start their usual argument about fuck-face. They go back and forth about it so often – Mickey doesn’t want Lip around Cody, at all, but Ian and Mandy both think that he has a right to get to know his son, even if he’s not raising him – maybe Ian’s just tired of it. Ultimately, the decision is Mandy’s, anyway; and she’s already told them that, as long as he stays sober, Lip is welcome to spend time with his kid. So really, the argument is a little pointless. 

A few minutes later, right as Mickey is preparing to head out, he walks up behind where Ian’s sitting on the couch with Cody in his lap. “Hey, Rambo,” he starts gently, clasping one hand down on the redhead’s shoulder. Ian tilts his head back to look up at him, and Mickey leans over, capturing his lips in a ridiculous upside-down kiss. It goes on for a while, probably well over a minute, until Ian jerks back abruptly after Cody headbutts him in the sternum. Mickey laughs at his boyfriend’s pained grunt. “Good aim, kid.” He says to his nephew. 

Ian just snorts in response. 

Mickey runs his hand through Ian’s hair, messing it slightly just because he can. “Pick up something on your way home and I’ll grill tonight.”

The younger man glances up at him again, between the kiss and the peace offering, Ian doesn’t look annoyed at all anymore. He wraps one hand around Mickey’s forearm and squeezes gently. “Sounds good.” He smiles softly. Mickey mimics it without meaning to. 

***  
***

Ian hangs back at the park, giving Lip time alone with Cody. He settles down on a bench and watches fondly as his brother chases the little boy around the playground – climbing up and down a jungle gym that’s way too small for him, and then pushing Cody on the swings, when the kid decides that’s what he wants to do for twenty minutes straight. 

Usually it’s Ian running around after him like that, and its actually kind of nice to be able to sit back and just watch, capturing a few moments here and there on his cellphone. Cody looks so much like Mandy when he laughs – and so much like Mickey when he scowls. When he’s concentrating on something, as hard as a three-year-old ever can, that’s when Ian thinks he looks the most like Lip. Fiona says he looks like Carl when he’s sleeping. He’s got a birthmark on his elbow that’s identical to one Debbie and Monica share, and the slight curve of his nose reminds them all of Iggy. It’s almost magical, how so many pieces of their families have combined together into this one tiny person. 

There’s one picture Ian snaps – Cody’s head thrown back in a laugh, his blonde hair glinting in the sunlight – that he can’t help but send to Mickey. His boyfriend’s a big softie when it comes to the kid, always has been, and loves seeing him happy like that. 

It’s almost three hours before Cody starts to get tired, dragging his feet around the playground until Lip picks him, hushing his protests, and walks over to where Ian’s sitting. In his exhaustion, Cody reaches out for the redhead immediately, making grabby hands at him and whining until Lip, reluctantly and not without a pinched look of sadness, hands him over. The three-year-old immediately snuggles into Ian’s chest, fisting his tiny hands in his t-shirt and holding on tight as his breathing starts to slow down and his eyes fall closed. 

“You wore him out.” Ian comments, eyes on Lip as his brother takes a seat next to him, watching with unmasked jealousy as his son finds comfort in Ian’s arms. 

“He’s a handful.” Lip nods, reaching over to run his hand over Cody’s back, resting it there for a moment. “I don’t remember Liam ever being this energetic.” 

Ian smiles softly. “It’s because he was excited to see you.” 

Lip openly beams. “Really?” 

The redhead nods. “Yeah.” He says easily. “He loves it when he gets to spend time with you. That’s why me and Mandy stopped telling him ahead of time – it’s all we’d hear about for days.” 

Lips smiles wider, obviously pleased. They sit in silence for another few minutes, Cody falling fully asleep against Ian’s shoulder, arms hanging limp. The younger man’s just weighing the pros and cons of letting Cody stay asleep – he’ll be cranky if Ian wakes him up, but if he doesn’t, the kid won’t sleep at all tonight – when Lip asks, “Do you think he’ll ever call me dad?” 

Ian glances over at him, surprised. “You’ve never asked me that before.” 

His brother shrugs, trying to look casual and failing miserably. “He calls you and Mickey that.” 

“Sometimes.” Ian acknowledges. “We spend every day with him, man. Me and you used to call Fiona mom. Liam used to call _Jimmy_ dad.” He shrugs. “That’s just what kids do, Lip.” 

The older boy nods a few times, eyes still on his son. “I want to spend more time with him.” 

Ian takes a deep breath. “Yeah?” 

“I got a job offer from this tech startup downtown.” Lip shares. “I’ve got a fulltime position waiting for me there as soon as I graduate.” 

Ian quirks an eyebrow. “What about Silicon Valley?” The redhead doesn’t fully comprehend all the nuts and bolts of his brother’s world, but he knows enough to understand that the job in California had been a once-in-a-lifetime kind of opportunity. 

Lip shrugs. “It’s three-thousand miles away.” 

“I’m not a hundred percent sure,” Ian says, tone lilting towards irony, “but I think there are these things called airplanes, and they travel from one side of the country to the other pretty much as often as you want.” 

The older man snorts, but his look of resolve remains firmly in place. “Nah, a job like that…it’d be my whole life, Ian. I’d get out here to visit once, maybe twice a year.” 

The younger man nods, accepting that what Lip’s saying is true. Even if it weren’t such a demanding job, it would probably still be true, he thinks. If Lip left Chicago, he’d have a hard time coming back on a regular basis – Ian knows that because he knows his brother. And because he knows that sometimes just staying gone is easier than coming back and then leaving again, over and over. 

But still. 

“You’re giving up a lot, man.” 

“Nah, not really.” Lip says easily, meeting Ian’s eye and smiling softly. 

Ian doesn’t try to talk him out of it, doesn’t ask him if he’s sure. At the end of the day, what Ian wants more than anything is whatever’s best for Cody – and what’s best for Cody is having his father in his life on a permanent basis. Besides that, Ian is selfishly glad that he won’t have to say goodbye to his brother anytime soon. 

“Well, good.” He says, with an air of finality. Lip looks a little surprised, like he’d been expecting something more, but Ian just grins serenely. “You tell Fiona yet?” 

“Yeah, been talking to her about it a lot the past few weeks.” He nods, and Ian knows then that their sister had been a major contributing factor in Lip’s decision. 

“You tell _Mandy_ yet?” 

Lip cringes. “I was kinda hoping –”

“Nope.” Ian cuts him off, before he can ask. “Not even close to my job.” 

Lip sighs dejectedly, “You suck.” He declares petulantly, but doesn’t look that surprised. 

Ian, for his part, is already dreading Mickey’s reaction to this news. He may have put it on Lip to tell Mandy, but Ian knows _he’ll_ have to be the one to break the news to Mickey. He feels tired already just thinking about it. Because for everything that’s changed over the years, one thing that hasn’t, and probably never will, is how much his boyfriend hates his brother. 

***

“You remember the first time you kissed me?” 

It’s almost midnight by now, and Ian and Mickey are the only ones still awake – Mandy had put Cody to bed hours ago, and had slunk off herself not long after. Ian’s a little tipsy from the half a beer or so he’d had – stealing sips from Mickey here and there throughout the evening until he’d felt pleasantly buzzed – and is leaning back against the couch cushions, watching his boyfriend pick up plates and silverware to take into the kitchen. 

The older man pauses just long enough to quirk an eyebrow at Ian’s question. “You’re drunk.” 

Ian laughs. “Only a little.” He assures, and waits until Mickey comes back from dumping everything into the sink before speaking again. “I was just thinking about it earlier, how fucking far we’ve come.” 

“Don’t get sappy, man,” Mickey groans, collapsing next to him on the couch, their thighs pressed together. “You know I can’t handle that shit.”

Ian hums, picking up one of Mickey’s hands in his own and trailing his fingers over the letters on his knuckles. “You remember when you found me in New York?”

“What’d I just fucking say, firecrotch?” Mickey deadpans, but doesn’t try to pull away from Ian’s touch. 

The redhead smiles gently. “I just want you to remember how it happened back then.” He says carefully. He’s been trying to think of the best way to do this all day. 

“Why?” Mickey asks, mostly curious, but there’s a little glint of worry in his eyes, when Ian glances over. He smiles softly to reassure the other man. 

“Because Lip was a big part of that.” He says, swallowing thickly and pressing his thumb firmly into the U on Mickey’s ring finger – a gesture he’s grown fond of ever since this one time when he’d been really, _really_ stoned, and had done it over and over again; because he’d honestly believed that the answers to all the questions in the universe were written in Mickey’s eyes, and he’d wanted the older boy to know that, to feel the spider-webbing infinities of forever (Mickey still makes fun of him for all the crazy shit he’d said that day, but Ian doesn’t care, because that’s the day he’d known, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was going to spend the rest of his life with Mickey fucking Milkovich).

“Why the fuck we talking about your brother right now, man?” Mickey groans, pressing their shoulders together more firmly, a clear attempt to try and distract him. 

Ian doesn’t let it. “Because he turned down that job in California.” He says quickly, trying to get the words out all at once, before Mickey can interrupt. “He’s staying in Chicago after he graduates because he wants to spend more time with Cody and I know you fucking hate him, Mick, but he’s my brother, and he’s Cody’s dad, and despite all the shit he did while he was drunk there was a time when the two of you actually managed to tolerate each other. So can you just try to remember that before you get pissed?” 

Ian closes his eyes around the words he’d just said, tilting his head back onto the couch and preparing himself for Mickey’s outburst. 

A few seconds later, and much to Ian’s surprise, he feels Mickey’s hand in his hair, his fingers carding from his temple to the base of his skull. Tentatively, because Mickey’s never done that for any reason other than to try to soothe him, Ian cracks his eyes open. 

The older man’s expression is soft and almost pained. “It bother you that much? That I hate the guy?” 

Ian bites his lip and glances away. He shouldn’t have had anything to drink tonight, he thinks. With the way the meds fuck up his system, alcohol affects him differently than it had before. Gets to him faster, without a doubt, but also makes him more emotional, and a fuck ton more honest, than it ever had in his youth. Then again, maybe that’s just one of the pitfalls of getting older. 

In response to Mickey’s question, he just shrugs. And the other man waits for a while, like he’s expecting Ian to say something more, but when he doesn’t Mickey sighs softly. “Hey,” he tugs gently on Ian’s hair, and then cups the side of his head in his hand when the younger man meets his gaze again. “I didn’t know it was fucking you up this much, Ian.” He says, tone taking on a serious edge that the redhead doesn’t hear that often. Mickey keeps staring at him, eyes searching. “Fuck. Were you afraid to tell me that?” 

Ian shrugs again. He’s not afraid of Mickey, not like _that_. It’s just, he knows that his boyfriend feels strongly about this – Lip’s involvement in Cody’s life – and they’ve been having variations of the same argument for years now. Sometimes it’s easier to just not bring it up. Only now Lip’s not moving out of state, and Ian already feels exhausted, thinking about what’s going to happen every single time Lip wants to spend time with his son, or when Ian wants to spend time with his brother. 

“I know Lip fucked up, that he fucked up a lot,” Ian says, running a hand over his face, trying to focus. “But I’m so fucking tired of…” he trails off, taking a deep breath. “Shit, Mickey, I’m just fucking tired.” 

Suddenly, out of nowhere and for absolutely no reason he can comprehend, Ian feels on the brink of tears. He lets out a shaky breath and tilts his head back again. “Sorry.” He doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for, exactly, just that he feels guilty. 

“Hey, Ian, look at me,” Mickey implores, some minutes later when the redhead doesn’t say anything else. He does, meeting his boyfriend’s gaze only to find that his ice-blue eyes are swimming with a guilt of their own, his whole expression thick with it. “Fuck.” He whispers again, moving his fingers more firmly through Ian’s hair, before letting them settle at the base of his neck and kneading gently. “I’m good, okay?” 

Ian’s eyebrows draw downwards, not understanding. 

“With your brother.” Mickey elaborates. “I’m good with him staying in town, spending time with the kid, whatever.” He swallows and shrugs. “I’m fine with all of it.” 

“No, you’re not.” Ian chuckles humorlessly. 

“Yes, I am.” Mickey says, with such conviction that Ian actually startles a little. The older man takes a deep breath. “I am now. I won’t start shit about him coming around anymore, alright?” 

“Just like that, huh?” Ian asks, still not believing it. “You can’t just be cool with a guy you’ve hated for years because I’m tired of it, Mick. Lip is –”

“Fuck what he is,” Mickey cuts him off harshly. Ian doesn’t mean to, but he flinches a little bit, having not expected the outburst. “See? That.” The older man huffs, but there’s no anger in it, just a kind of resolve that Ian’s having a hard time wrapping his head around. “If it fucks you up that much, Ian, then it’s over. I’m done hating him. Just like that.” 

“I appreciate the sentiment, I do, but…” he pauses, trying to figure out what he wants to say, how he can argue with Mickey’s declaration. Then wonders briefly why he’s even trying to. 

“You want me to prove it?” Mickey asks, almost challenging. “I’ll hang out with the guy, alright? Clear the air, play nice, whatever you want.” 

Ian shakes his head. “I don’t wanna force you to spend time with Lip.” He says honestly. 

“Nah, man, I probably should.” Mickey shrugs, affecting his tone into something casual, like all of this isn’t happening in response to Ian being upset. “He’s Cody’s father, right? He’s gonna be around. The kid can’t grow up thinking his dad’s an asshole just ‘cause I do. He’s got a right to figure that out on his own.” 

Ian huffs a laugh, tired but genuine. “Mickey…” 

“Stop.” The older man says firmly, leaning over and kissing him squarely. Ian returns it instinctively. Mickey kisses him three more times before pulling back again. “It’s done, Ian. Me and your brother are gonna mend the fucking bridge, or whatever the fuck. Like it or not.” 

“Mend the fence, build a bridge.” Ian mumbles, smiling a little when Mickey gives him a baleful look. Then, more seriously, “You really don’t have to. I can deal with –”

“No, you obviously can’t.” Mickey interrupts, softly and with another gentle squeeze to the back of his neck to let him know that it’s not something he blames Ian for, that he’s not angry. “And, fuck, man, you shouldn’t have to.”

Ian takes a deep breath, watching Mickey’s face for any sign of resentment. He doesn’t find any, sees nothing but sincerity and leftover guilt. It makes Ian feel like shit, a little bit, because he hadn’t _meant_ to guilt Mickey into changing his attitude about Lip. And, honestly, he probably should have said something a long time ago, about how much it bothers him, but he’d always felt like starting a real fight about it would make it seem like he was choosing his brother over his boyfriend, and Ian hadn’t wanted to do that. 

He smiles at Mickey then, letting him see how genuinely grateful he is. “Thank you.” 

The older man pulls him forward by the grip he’s got on his neck, resting their foreheads together. “I got you, Ian.” Mickey says softly. “This.” 

Ian smiles and pulls back just enough to kiss Mickey again. He gets both his hands on the other man’s shoulders and squeezes firmly. “Us.” 

***  
***

Mending the bridge – _fence_ – with Lip fucking Gallagher isn’t something Mickey had ever thought he’d have to do, certainly not something he ever thought he’d _want_ to do, but the look on Ian’s face a few nights ago had changed everything. 

He truly hadn’t realized how much Ian had been taking it to heart, how much it had been fucking him up, that Mickey hates the guy. They’ve been arguing about it for years – Lip’s sobriety, his involvement in Cody’s life, all of it – but Mickey had just thought it was one of those things. Something he and Ian would never fully agree on. And if it hadn’t been for the alcohol the other night, Ian’s inability to hide his true emotions around the beer and exhaustion, Mickey might have gone on not knowing. 

And that scares the fucking shit out of him. 

He doesn’t even want to think about what might have happened between them down the line if Mickey hadn’t caught on, if this wedge between him and Lip had kept growing until Ian had felt split right down the middle by it. It scares him, too, that his boyfriend had been hurting so much and Mickey hadn’t been able to see it. 

He wonders if Ian’s mentioned it to his shrink. Over the years, with Ian’s increasing stability on the meds, neither of them go to Dr. Ramsey as much as they used to. Ian checks in once a month, like clockwork, but it’s mostly just to reaffirm his progress and get new prescriptions. At least, that’s what Ian tells him. Mickey hasn’t tagged along in well over a year. He wonders now if he should. If this is something serious enough that they need a detached third party to help them work it out. 

Mickey never thought he’d be the type to rely on a fucking shrink to solve his problems for him – always believed the whole concept of therapy to be rather pathetic, if he’s being honest – but he’s changed over the years. Ian, and the reality of loving someone who’s bipolar, has changed him. For Mickey, being forced to talk to a shrink in prison had been a necessary reality that hadn’t been as bad as he’d thought it’d be. But for Ian, therapy isn’t a take-it-or-leave-it kind of thing. 

But Mickey’s gotten lax about it over the years, settled into this false sense of security because Ian hasn’t had an episode – at least not a bad one – in such a long time. He knows, logically, that bipolar isn’t something that’s ever cured, that Ian will have this thing in his head for the rest of his life, but Mickey has let his guard down about it, allowed it to fade into the background of their lives, stopped being as proactive as he used to be. And that’s not okay. 

Ian’s expression the other night – resigned and afraid – will _never_ be okay. And knowing that _he’s_ the one who had caused that makes Mickey feel like the biggest sack of shit in the world. 

That’s why he’s here today – at a hipster little coffee place half a mile from Lip’s college campus, waiting for the other man to show up for their designated _mend the fucking fence_ meeting. Mickey would have much preferred to do this at a bar, but for obvious reasons that hadn’t been an option. 

He’s halfway through his coffee before Ian’s brother shows up. To the other guy’s credit, he looks like he had rushed here, and maybe even feels guilty for showing up ten minutes late. 

“Sorry,” he says as he sits down across from Mickey, slightly out of breath. “Class ran long.”

Mickey grunts, but nods. This is something the guy will be useful for later, Mickey thinks – navigating the whole higher education thing. Micky, Mandy, and Ian hadn’t even graduated high school – though all three of them had eventually wound up with their GEDs – but they’re all dead set on Cody following in Lip’s footsteps. Academically, at least. 

“S’cool,” he mutters, tapping his fingers against the rim of his coffee mug as some guy with an apron and dreadlocks comes by and asks Lip what he wants. The older Gallagher orders an espresso, and seems to find it beyond amusing that the waiter can’t stop staring at Mickey’s knuckle tattoos. 

“Probably gonna get the cops on speed dial.” Lip muses once the hippy waiter walks away. “They don’t get much Southside culture around here.” 

Mickey snorts. “Sheltered little snowflakes, eh?” 

“Pretty much.” Lip sighs, expression morphing from amusement to carefully reserved curiosity. “So, what are we doing here, Mickey?”

“We’re drinking fucking coffee, dipshit.” Mickey snaps, rolling his eyes. 

Lip just gives him a look, expectant and superior, like he thinks he already knows exactly what this is about, but wants Mickey to spell it out. The brunette clenches his teeth hard. Fuck, he’s always hated that look. 

Slowly, and not without a great deal of effort, Mickey forces himself to calm down. To not to get up and walk away. Or punch the guy across from him right in his fat fucking face. He focuses on Lip’s eyes because they look so much like Cody’s, and that helps him feel a little more settled.

“Ian set this up, right?” Lip eventually asks, breaking the silence when it becomes obvious that Mickey won’t do it first. “He wants us to play nice?”

Mickey shrugs. “Something like that.” 

Lip huffs. “Surprised you agreed.” 

The older man shakes his head, chuckling lightly because it’s actually kind of pathetic, that Lip thinks he’s been coerced into doing this. “You’re here, too, fuck-face.” He points out. 

“Yeah, well, you’re raising my kid.” He says, startling Mickey with the succinctness of his words. “And I owe Ian a lot more than a man-date with his boyfriend.” 

“They teach you that humility thing in AA?” He asks before he can stop himself. Lip huffs softly but doesn’t deny it. “And what the fuck’s a _man-date_?” 

“This,” Lip says, gesturing between the two of them. “This is a man-date.” 

The waiter chooses that moment to come over with Lip’s drink, giving them both an odd look when he catches the tail end of their conversation. 

“Got a problem?” Mickey asks the guy harshly when he doesn’t immediately leave.

“N-no.” The hippy stammers, backing away from them almost instantly at Mickey’s threatening glare. 

“Forgot how fun that is.” He muses once the guy is gone, noticing it that Lip looks amused, rather than annoyed, by Mickey’s mild display of aggression. 

“So, what happens here?” Lip asks after a few minutes of silence tick by. Mickey quirks an eyebrow. “Is this real?” He elaborates. “Or are we just going through the motions?” 

Mickey takes a deep breath and rubs his fingers into his eyes. He decides to go for broke, because it’s not like he has much to lose at this point, anyway. “I can’t keep hating you.” 

“Too much effort?” Lip quips. 

“It’s messing with Ian’s head.” Mickey rebuts, scowling slightly and glancing away. “He can’t handle…” he trails off, waving a hand between them to show what he means. 

Lip’s expression is different when Mickey finally glances back at him, softer somehow. “So you are doing this for him.” 

“Well, yeah.” Mickey snorts. “You think I give a fuck about you?” 

“I guess not.” Lip acknowledges. He almost seems more at ease now that he understands why this is happening. Mickey guesses that’s a control thing that goes hand-in-hand with all his genius, superior bullshit. 

“He’d be better off without you in his life.” Mickey says suddenly, because he’s here, this is happening, and he’s going to damn well say everything he wants to say. Good and bad. 

“He’s my brother,” Lip counters immediately, face scrunching in anger. “you don’t get to decide –”

“Cody.” Mickey interrupts, startling the other man into an abrupt silence. “Ian’s a grown ass adult; he doesn’t wanna cut you outta his life, that’s his call. But the kid, _your_ kid, would be better off if you left. Took that stupid fucking job in California and just hightailed it outta here.” 

Suddenly, and with a sharpness that startles him, Mickey remembers that, once upon a time, California had been his own dream – his and Ian’s. San Francisco. They’d never made it there, though that’s hardly something they consider a tragedy these days, and now it looks like, despite being presented the opportunity, Ian’s brother won’t be sailing off into a golden coast sunset, either. 

Maybe someday Cody will live there. Bring all their lives full circle. 

Lip’s expression is a mix of anger and guilt, when Mickey glances over at him again. The blonde is sitting up a little straighter, too, with his shoulders squared tellingly. “That’s not your call.” 

Mickey could argue with that if he wanted to – he’s invested a hell of a lot more time and energy into raising his sister’s son than the guy sitting across from him has – but he and fuck-face have already had that fight more than once. And twice now it’s ended in fists and broken bones. That’s not why he’s here today – can’t be, anymore. So he takes a deep breath and nods slowly. 

“You fuck that kid’s life up and I will end you.” He starts, low and careful, because Lip needs to hear how serious he is about this. “I don’t give a shit if you fall off the wagon again, but you don’t come around Cody if you do, you got that? Call your sponsor, or your sister. Call Ian, even, or, fucking hell, _me_ if you’re desperate enough. But you don’t come _near_ that kid drunk. _Ever_.” 

Lip swallows thickly but, much to Mickey’s surprise, doesn’t respond aggressively, or even sarcastically. Instead, he just nods solemnly. “I won’t.” 

“’Cause this is over if you do,” Mickey continues, laying everything on the line. “And Ian would stand by me, if it came to that. You know that, right? He can’t take me fucking hating you anymore, so after today that’s done, but if you fuck with Cody, the deal’s off the table.”

“You really love him, don’t you?” Lip’s voice is a little shaky, like he might actually be afraid – _good_ , Mickey thinks – but he’s holding his own. He knows he’s fucked up, and he knows his family is just about tapped out in the forgiveness department. Add Cody to the mix, and Mickey is sure that Lip gets it now. Understands that every single one of his siblings will side with Mickey and Mandy, if he ever fucks up again and hurts his son. All of them had grown up with Frank, and none of them are willing to let another Gallagher fall victim to an alcoholic father. 

“Yeah. I do.” Mickey says simply. He doesn’t know if Lip’s referring to Ian or Cody, but it doesn’t really matter. His loyalty is well and firmly set, lines drawn in the sand, and as long as Lip gets that, understands what Mickey will do if shit ever hits the fan again, then the two of them will be able to exist together amicably. 

“Yeah.” Lip echoes, and then takes a deep breath. “Y’know, I can still remember the first time Ian told me about you and him. We were sitting in a car, one of Jimmy’s stolen ones, outside of his…outside our uncle’s house.” The other man pauses, tilts his head curiously for a moment. “Ian ever tell you about that? About Clayton?” 

“You mean how Frank isn’t his real dad?” Mickey asks, smirking a little when Lip actually looks surprised. “Yeah, years ago.” 

“After New York?” 

“Before.” He says honestly, smirk growing wider. “Right around the time you guys were in that group home.” 

“Well, shit.” Lip breathes, running a hand over his face. After a minute or two, he laughs. “I was gonna say something about how I never woulda believed it, back then, if someone told me that this is the way my life was gonna play out. With you and Ian being a stabilizing force in my own son’s life.” He huffs lightly. “But I guess I probably coulda seen it coming, huh?” 

Mickey quirks an eyebrow. “Don’t see how.” He admits. Because there aren’t many things him and Lip have ever agreed on, but a sense of disbelief over how their lives have turned out certainly wouldn’t be outside the narrow scope of things the two of them have in common. 

“Y’know, I wasn’t even upset when he told me you guys were fucking back then.” Lip continues, only he’s not responding to Mickey’s words, and his eyes have gone slightly out of focus, like he’s not really seeing him at all anymore. “Because as dangerous as I thought it was, him getting mixed up with a Milkovich, at least _you_ weren’t a fucking pedophile, y’know?” 

“Yeah.” Mickey growls, angrier than he means to sound, because the thought of Kash and Ian together still, to this day, infuriates him. 

“And we were sitting in that car, staking out Frank’s brother, Ian’s father, and it’s just…it’s just so fucking ironic, looking back on it like that. Like the end of some tragic poem or something.” Lip chuckles dryly. “You remember that night him and me got into it? Beat the shit out of each other right in front of the house?” 

“No, asshole, I forgot about that.” Mickey’s tone is dripping with sarcasm, but Lip doesn’t seem to care, still caught up in the story he’s telling himself – and Mickey, by default. 

“Ian said it to me that night, said it ‘cause he knew it would hit a nerve and he wanted to hurt me.” He shakes his head slightly. “’Cause he was already on Cody’s side, on yours. And, rightfully so, I guess, because it’s not like I wasn’t a mess back then.” 

“What’d he say?” Mickey can’t help but ask, because Ian’s never told him the details of that night leading up to his and his brother’s fight. Mickey had always figured that was because there wasn’t really much of a story to tell. He’d thought Lip had showed up that night drunk off his ass and that had been it. Now, at Lip’s own retelling of the event, he’s curious.

“Said him and Frank were more alike than anybody ever realized.” The other man tells him. “Because they both wound up raising their brother’s kids.” 

Mickey breathes out slowly, biting the side of his lip to keep himself from smiling too wide. Even years later, Mickey can’t help but feel a swell of pride towards Ian for saying something so blatantly cold and calculating to his brother. Ian’s always been precise and lethal in his words and actions, when the situation calls for it, but a comment like that, to a guy like Lip, goes beyond what even Mickey would have ever expected from his lover. “Harsh.” He says, doing very little to mask his own amusement. 

Lip sees the reaction Mickey’s doing fuck-all to hide and smirks a little himself, shaking his head almost fondly. “You two are perfect for each other.” 

Once upon a time, coming from Lip, those words would have been an insult. Now, they ring with something akin to relief. 

“Yeah, we are.” Mickey agrees. Openly and proudly declaring his feelings for Ian isn’t something he’d ever thought he’d be able to do, back in the day, but he’s alright with it now. More than that, even; he takes pride in it. Mostly because of how much of a struggle it’s been for him – for both of them – to get to the place they’re at now. 

“Yeah, you are.” Lip says again, only his expression is softer all of a sudden, none of that superior bullshit that Mickey’s always hated so much. “Take care of him, okay?” He glances to the side, hands coming up to wrap around his coffee cup, shoulders hunching slightly. “I know Cody’s better off with you guys, I get that now, but Ian…Ian’s always been…” he cuts himself off with a shaky breath. “Just take care of him, alright? Protect him. Protect him from me, if you have to.” 

Mickey’s not entirely sure what to say. He’s surprised – thrown in a way he hasn’t felt in years – but it’s good, he supposes. Maybe Lip Gallagher isn’t the selfish asshole Mickey had always taken him for – at least not entirely, or maybe just not anymore. 

“I will.” He finally agrees, because no other words would fit here, in this moment, and there aren’t any others he wants to say, anyway. “I always will. Count on it.”

___________________________________________________

**Next Time:**

_“So, here’s to you two,” Lip concludes, “for proving, once and for all, that the best love stories never end.”_

___________________________________________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so the next chapter will officially be the epilogue, and while I've got a lot, maybe even most, of that written so far, it kind of just keeps going every time I sit down to write it, and because work and real life have been hectic lately, there's a _chance_ I'm gonna miss this Sunday's update. I'm gonna try my best to shoot for it, I really am, but the last chapter (second to last? I still haven't decided on that bonus extra chapter thing yet) might not be out until next Wednesday. I do promise that, barring a disaster of some sort, this story will be 100% complete before Christmas. Thanks for sticking with me :)


	18. And We’re Starting at the End

****

\--Epilogue--

_And We’re Starting at the End_

***

Things are easier after Lip and Mickey stop actively hating each other. 

Lip takes the job downtown so he can spend more time with his son – and he does. They come up with a schedule – routine has stayed an important part of all of their lives (the focus of that might have started on Ian, but it’s grown and evolved because of Cody) – and every single one of them sticks to it. By the time he’s in first grade, Cody is used to all the various adults in his world, and the respective roles they play in his life. He has a vague semblance of how complicated his family is by now, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. 

Mickey hears him one day, explaining it in his own words to a friend of his, over at the Milkovich house for a playdate. 

Mandy had been afraid, when Cody had first started school, that his last name would work against him – that parents wouldn’t want their children associating with one of the most feared, violent families on the southside, and that Cody would lack for friends because of it. She’d even briefly considered changing his last name to _Gallagher_ ; Mickey and Iggy had both rebelled pretty spectacularly against that idea, though, and Mandy had eventually agreed to at least give it a year, see how it played out. 

Turns out, reputations are fickle things, and since none of the Milkovich’s have done anything noteworthy or criminal in years, most people have forgotten how afraid they used to be by the mere mention of the name. Sure, some of the older assholes around the neighborhood still tell stories – _“I remember watching Terry beat a man half to death over a burnt waffle once…”_ or _“There are shallow graves the police still haven’t found with Colin Milkovich’s victims in them…”_

Some are exaggerations, others aren’t, but because almost all of the stories tend to come from aging drunks – willing to say anything in order to get people to remember that they themselves used to be something other than pathetic, near homeless, and almost dead – most people don’t pay them much mind. 

Frank, especially, likes to talk to anyone who will listen about the way things used to be. Mickey’s pretty sure the eldest Gallagher thinks it will win him favor and respect amongst others – if he spreads the word that two of his sons are de facto members of what used to be the most threatening family around. But, luckily for all of them, everyone on the southside had stopped listening to Frank years ago. 

“My mom’s my mom,” Cody says to his friend that day, carefully explaining the intricacies of his home life with a tone Mickey can’t help but grin at. Cody likes being different than other kids, and his family has a lot to do with that. “and Uncle Ian and Uncle Mickey are my dads, but not really my dads. I used to call them that when I was little, but I’m not little anymore.” 

Cody still slips sometimes, calls Ian or Mickey _daddy_ when he’s sick or especially tired. 

“Uncle Iggy is just my uncle, and he’s _awesome_ ,” Mickey can hear Cody’s grin, wide and innocent, “but Uncle Lip is my dad, my real dad, but I don’t have to call him that ‘til I wanna.” 

Cody’s friend sounds curious when he asks, “How can your dad be your uncle, too?” and Mickey has to put a hand over his mouth to stop any sound from coming out. It’s funny, he can’t help but admit, how similar Ian and Cody actually are. Genetics and circumstances playing equal roles in their parallel upbringings. They all strive, every day, to make sure Cody has better stories to tell than Ian ever has, when it comes to the differences between fathers and uncles.

“I dunno.” Mickey pictures Cody shrugging (he can’t see because he’s hiding around the corner from the living room, eavesdropping like an asshole with absolutely no remorse). The little boy doesn’t sound upset, or anything really, besides factual. “Uncle Mickey says mom and Uncle Lip made me, but Uncle Ian wouldn’t let him explain how.” 

“My mom says babies happen when an angel brushes its wings against a woman’s cheek.” Cody’s friend says, causing Mickey to roll his eyes. Do people really lie to their kids like that? 

“Nuh-uh,” Cody immediately counters, making Mickey proud. “Angels are people who died, like my grandma Monica. And we get to remember them nicer than they were ‘cause angels are nicer than people and after you die all the bad stuff goes away.” 

“Really?” Cody’s friend asks. Mickey doesn’t remember ever explaining death to the kid quite like that, and wonders if the angel thing is something that Ian had come up with. It was most likely him or Fiona – the words have a distinctly _Gallagher_ feel to them. 

“Yeah.” Cody says enthusiastically, clearly thrilled to have a ready audience on which to impart all of his wisdom. “Unless you were really, really bad. Then you go to hell. Like my grandpa. Uncle Iggy and Uncle Mickey say he went to hell a lot.”

“That’s not nice.” Cody’s friend says quietly, almost reverently, like he can’t actually believe Cody had just said those words. 

“My grandpa wasn’t nice.” Cody says firmly. Mickey can picture his little mouth shifting into a straight line, just like Mandy’s does when she’s being particularly bullheaded. “He hated my dad ‘cause he loved my dad.” 

“Which dads?” Cody’s friend asks. 

“My uncles.” Cody says, almost impatiently. “Uncle Ian and Uncle Mickey love each other, and that’s okay.” 

Mickey’s chest swells with affection. 

“I only have one uncle.” Cody’s friend is saying. “And he always smells bad. I only see him at Christmas.” 

“I have a bunch of uncles.” Cody tells him, sounding proud. “And two aunts. Aunt Fiona is the best, ‘cause she takes me to the movies all the time, and buys me candy _and_ popcorn. But Aunt Debbie sends me stuff from all over the _world_ , so she’s cool, too. Uncle Ian and Mickey say we can visit her this summer in Paris if I do really good in school and don’t get in trouble at all.” 

“Where’s Paris?” Cody’s friend asks. 

“Somewhere over all the water.” Cody explains. Mickey makes a mental note to show the kid a map at some point. “I think that will be the coolest thing I ever do.” Cody declares, sounding firm in his statement until the very next breath, when he reconsiders with a thoughtful, “Until Uncle Jimmy teaches me how to drive. He promised he would when I was older. I think maybe he’ll do it next year.” 

Mickey doesn’t bother listening to the rest of the conversation, but he does relay almost all of it to Ian and Mandy later. It’s nice to know that the three of them are doing a pretty okay job raising the kid, even if it means that any teacher who ever asks him about his parents will probably be left with the impression that he’s being raised by some kind of incestuous foursome. 

***

Debbie wants to get out of their neighborhood as soon as she graduates high school. That in and of itself isn’t the least bit surprising, but the way she goes about it, and where she decides to go _to_ , definitely is. 

Most southside kids who want to get away from their less-than-stellar roots usually opt for pretty standard issue outs. Lip and Ian, for instance, had both fled the neighborhood where they’d grown up in rather predictable ways – college and the army respectively – but when the time comes for Debbie to cut and run, no one’s expecting the _how_. 

“I’m moving to Europe.” 

It had been a pretty routine Gallagher family dinner up until her announcement. 

Mickey and Mandy both become rather unwitting participants in the family argument that follows. A lot of the immediate shouting revolves around questions like, _“How are you planning on living on a different continent all by yourself?”_ and _“Where’s the money for that coming from, huh?”_ and _“But you don’t even speak British.”_ (That last one comes from Carl, and since everyone else is too distracted to bother, Jimmy pulls the kid off to the side and explains some things). 

Turns out, Debbie had found a scholarship program that will pay for her to attend school in the UK, as long as she agrees to work for one of the University’s partner programs for at least three years after she graduates. There’ll be a lot of travelling throughout Europe involved, and Debbie could not be more thrilled by the prospect. 

“I’ve always wanted to see the world.” She tells them all earnestly, “What’s a better place to start with than _Europe_?” 

No one’s really able to argue with that. Especially not once it becomes clear that money won’t be an overwhelming factor.

A couple years later Mickey has a passport – a thing he never thought he’d need in his life – and has been to fucking _Europe_. Besides a few half-formed plans he’d made as a kid about fleeing to Mexico if he ever had to run from the cops for something, Mickey had honestly never thought he’d leave the United States. 

But that’s the Gallaghers for you – altering the entire course of your life, one seemingly mundane decision at a time. It’s not like Mickey’s mad about it, though. As it turns out, there are quite a few pubs in the seedier sections of London where the patrons thoroughly enjoy a rough-and-tumble American with FUCK U-UP knuckle tattoos. 

Once Cody’s a lot older, he and Ian are going to move to London – spend their days drinking warm beer with retired soccer (football, he supposes) players, picking fights with confused tourists, and trekking through the countrysides of whatever countries Ian has even the vaguest desire to see the sides of. 

Once Ian feels like hanging up his EMT hat for good, and Kev doesn’t need Mickey at the bar anymore, the two of them are going to spend the second half of their lives on the other side of the pond, or across the pond, or however that saying goes. Because there’s so much to see over there, and even though they’ve only visited Debbie twice, both times Ian had looked heartsick when they’d had to leave. So, the plan is to move there someday. 

Ian doesn’t know about the plan yet, but Mickey figures he has years yet to clue him in. 

***

Carl’s future life plan doesn’t play out quite as neatly as his sister’s. 

The kid has calmed down a lot since his brief stint in juvie and subsequent year on probation, and Mickey has to give it to the younger Gallagher that he’d chosen to get out of the life rather quickly. 

The dealers Carl had been working for hadn’t exactly wanted to see him go – having an innocent looking white boy in the drug selling game isn’t an asset most criminals around here are eager to give up without a fight – but Mickey and Iggy hadn’t been averse to giving them exactly that when Carl had asked it of them. 

Ian hadn’t been thrilled about how that had played out, but after getting a look at the gash on his little brother’s forehead and realizing how close he’d come to destroying the rest of his life (figuratively and literally), Ian had let it go. Had thanked Mickey and Iggy, even, for handling the situation in a way he and the rest of his siblings probably couldn’t have. 

About a week after Carl’s impromptu departure from his criminal lifestyle, Mickey wakes up one morning to find the kid asleep on their couch. He doesn’t give it much thought – figures he and Ian must have been hanging out the night before and the younger boy hadn’t felt like walking home. It’s not exactly unusual to find various Gallaghers crashed out in their house; Jimmy tends to migrate over here whenever he and Fiona fight, and Liam spends almost as much time here as he does at his own home. 

But a week later, when Mickey shuffles through the living room first thing in the morning (well, afternoon) and sees Carl sleeping on their couch _again_ , he brings it up. 

“Yo, Ian,” he starts, once he finds the redhead in their kitchen, “isn’t it about time for the kid to sleep safe and sound in his own bed?” 

Ian, scooping coffee grounds into the filter and still not entirely awake, gives him a look. “I thought you liked Liam here.” 

Mickey blinks dumbly. “Liam’s here?” 

“He’s been sleeping in Cody’s room.” Ian explains. And that makes sense, because despite the almost six-year age difference between them, Liam and Cody have always been close. Liam loves playing the role of big brother to the younger boy, and none of them have ever questioned that, because older sibling/younger sibling is the only family dynamic he’s ever seen. 

“Right.” Mickey rubs the base of his palm into his eye. “I was talkin’ about Carl, though.” 

“Oh.” Ian turns towards him with drooping eyelids and says simply, “I think he lives here now.” 

Mickey’s not entirely sure how to respond to that. “Come again, firecrotch?”

Ian shrugs. “Him and Fiona got into a fight about how he was held back a grade or something,” he trails off and turns the coffee pot on, watching intently as the first few drips trickle out. “And his girlfriend’s dad – did you know Carl had a girlfriend, by the way? Feels like yesterday he was asking me where the gay wieners go, – but I guess her dad is a cop and now Carl wants to be a cop, too, so he’s thinking about getting his GED and just joining the academy when he turns eighteen, but Fiona wants him to graduate and the two of them got into it. He thinks I’ll be on his side ‘cause of the whole army thing.” 

Mickey blinks dumbly at his boyfriend for an embarrassingly long time. “How do we live in the same house and I didn’t know any’a that?” 

Ian only laughs, and then proceeds to very successfully distract him by tugging on his arm until they’re flush against one another, kissing softly, and then not so softly, as the coffee brews quietly in the background. They only pull apart once Liam walks in and makes a noise at them. 

Carl winds up staying with them for six months. 

Eventually he shocks all of them by leaving the southside years earlier than anyone in his family, besides Ian, ever has. With the help of his girlfriend’s (well, ex-girlfriend by then) dad, Carl finds a military school to go to. He wants to join the Navy as soon as he graduates, and even though it’s the least likely outcome Mickey would have ever expected from Carl Gallagher, he can’t help it if he feels proud of the kid. 

“Maybe I did alright, having Lip’s baby.” Mandy says to him one night, the both of them a little drunk and alone in the house. 

“Yeah?” Mickey prods with the barest trace of interest, most of his attention on the Shark Week special he’s watching. 

“Yeah.” She says, hardly needing her brother’s attention to keep talking after the fourth or fifth beer. “Fucking Gallaghers, right?” She laughs. “Never woulda thought, back in the day, that every single one of them would wind up being a good influence on my son.” 

Mickey tears his eyes away from a Tiger Shark devouring its prey and glances over at his sister. 

Mandy smiles at him, wide and real. “Don’t think we coulda picked a better family to get mixed up with.” 

Mickey chuckles, a light sound that makes Mandy smile even wider. She’s right, after all, and neither of them can deny it. 

***

When Iggy decides to move in with his girlfriend, no one is surprised. 

“You’ve been dating her for, like, three years.” Mickey snorts when his older brother finally makes the announcement. “It’s about fucking time.” 

Mandy’s a little more emotional about the whole thing, but she’s been a fan of Gracie’s from the very beginning, and the fact that she lives less than three train stops away helps lessen the blow considerably. 

Gracie, Iggy’s long-term girlfriend, has a daughter a few years older than Cody. That had been how the two of them had met, actually. Bethany – a curious, fearless four-year-old at the time – had wandered into the diner late one afternoon when Iggy had been working. There had only been one other employee on duty at the time (it had been a slow week) and Grant – a recovering heroin addict who had lost custody of his own kids – hadn’t been able to deal with the sudden appearance of a child. 

At that point, Iggy was very good with Cody, a small baby, but hadn’t quite known what to do with the talkative four-year-old. “I have a brother-in-law, kinda, who’s just a little bit older than you,” he’d told Bethany after sitting her down in a booth near the front of the diner with a large helping of chocolate milk and French fries. “His name’s Liam. What’s your name?” 

Mickey only knows this story as well as he does because Gracie has recounted it for all of them several times throughout the years. 

Gracie herself, that day she and Iggy had met, had been across the street at the laundromat and had only taken her eyes off of Bethany _“…for one second. Like, one fucking second. I turned around and she was just_ gone. _Took ten years off my life, I swear to god.”_ And had found her again less than fifteen minutes later, rushing into the diner in a panic and then sobbing in relief as soon as she’d spotted her kid. 

The first time she hears that story, Fiona snorts in sympathy. _“I lost Debbie at a street fair one time. Lip and Ian kept running off, and Carl lit a trash can on fire, and I was so distracted that I didn’t notice it when Debbie got on the L by herself. She was five. We all spent hours looking for her and were just about to call the cops, but when we got home we found her sleeping on the couch.”_

Needless to say, Gracie had fit in with their family incredibly well from day one. And when Iggy decides to make it an official thing – packing boxes and borrowing Jimmy’s car to help with the move – everyone is happy for them. 

Mandy shows up at their house a week after the official beginning of their cohabitation with the papasan chair from their living room, explaining to Gracie (since Iggy’s not home at the time) that Iggy had always loved it, and she’d felt bad for keeping it. Two months later Iggy returns the chair to the Milkovich house under the guise of it being a belated Christmas gift. Four months after that, Mandy uses her spare key to get into Gracie and Iggy’s place when no one is home and leaves it in their bedroom. Iggy comes over a month and a half later to watch Liam and Cody one night and had brings the chair with him.

Mickey stops paying much attention after that, resigned to the fact that every few months the chair will magically appear back in their living room, only to disappear again a couple months later. Gracie and Ian have been documenting the entire feud on Facebook for years, and Mickey’s pretty sure it won’t actually end until one of them dies. 

***

When Mickey and Ian finally do get married, it’s nothing extravagant. 

Or, at the very least, Mickey tries his best to keep it from becoming extravagant. Fiona and Mandy have other ideas. 

It happens the summer after Cody turns six, and all of the Gallaghers are there – even Debbie and Carl, who have to travel in from their respective new homes – along with Iggy and Mandy, of course, and a surprising number of people from the neighborhood. Maybe it’s all the years of gentrification finally taking their toll, or just the fact that Mickey’s put the fear of god into any homophobes willing to start shit during his time working at The Alibi, but a lot of people seem pretty okay with the whole gay thing; and anyone who’s _not_ okay with it is smart enough to keep their distance the day he and Ian finally make it official. 

The actual legal act of becoming married takes place downtown in a courthouse, and Mickey’s less nervous about the whole ordeal than he thought he would be. 

Deciding to get married had been nerve-wracking and terrifying as fuck, telling their families had been tedious, and explaining it to Cody had been a longer process than either of them had been expecting ( _“What’s married?”, “It means we’re going to stay together forever.”, “But you’ve already been together forever.”, “Yeah, but this is legal.”, “What’s legal mean?”, “It means…it means no one can say we’re not a real couple.”, “Why would anyone say that? That’s stupid.”, “Aunt Fiona and Uncle Jimmy are married.”, “Really? When did that happen?”, “Uh, when you were about one, I think. Yeah, you’d just turned one. You’re in the pictures, if you wanna see.”, “How come you guys didn’t get married when I was one, too?”_ And on and on for well over an hour.). 

The nuts and bolts of marriage had been difficult, but actually getting married…well, that just ends up feeling a lot like coming home. 

***

They only have family at the courthouse, but given the size of their family, it’s still quite a lot of people. He and Ian recite standard vows while wearing relatively casual clothes – button up shirts and slacks and jeans, respectively – and even though Fiona and Mandy had hemmed and hawed over it, their lack of flair, Mickey isn’t one for being in the spotlight, considers his love a rather private thing, and hadn’t wanted to draw the ceremony out in any way. 

He worries, in the days leading up to the event, that Ian will take all of that the wrong way, will think that, even after all these years, Mickey is embarrassed or ashamed of their relationship. 

Ian proves him well and truly wrong one night three days before the wedding. 

They’re in the middle of fucking, facing each other, when Ian takes both of Mickey’s hands in his, laces their fingers together, and pulls his arms over his head. He stops thrusting, causing Mickey to whine, but doesn’t say anything until the older man opens his eyes. 

When he does, he knows he must look desperate and confused, because Ian shushes him with a series of gentle kisses, which somehow manage to feel tender and innocent even though the redhead still has his cock buried all the way inside of Mickey’s ass. Then again, maybe that’s just part of it. Mickey never feels safer, after all, than he does when he’s with Ian like this. 

“I love you.” The redhead tells him, voice barely above a whisper. Mickey’s eyebrows draw down in slight confusion, because while the words themselves aren’t unusual, the timing is a little off. “I love you so much, Mick.” He continues, squeezing his hands where they’re still connected above his head. “And I know you love me. We’re gonna be together forever, and it doesn’t matter,” he dips to kiss the side of Mickey’s face, the bridge of his nose, the middle of his forehead. “It doesn’t matter that you want the wedding to be small. It wouldn’t even matter if we weren’t getting married at all. I’m glad we are,” he adds quickly, kissing Mickey’s lips once, firmly, “but even if we weren’t, nothing’s going to stop us from being together for the rest of our lives.” 

Mickey doesn’t know how to respond to that. There are tears his eyes and he tries to turn away, blink rapidly to clear his vision, but Ian doesn’t let him. He nudges Mickey’s head gently with his own and squeezes his hands again until Mickey turns back, allowing Ian to see every emotion playing out behind his eyes, all the years worth of love, pain, devotion, and decisions that have led them right here, to the very beginning of their forever. 

“I love you.” He finally whispers, not sure what else there is to say, not sure if there are even words in the English language that can accurately express how he feels about the man spread out on top of him, this boy he’s loved for most of his life, the guy that’s always been, and always will be, _his_ guy. “This.” 

“Us.” Ian agrees, smiling wide and kissing him again, over and over until Mickey feels like they’re not even two people anymore, just one single entity bound together by history and eternity and love. 

“Always.” 

***

So, when the day finally comes for Mickey and Ian to get married, Mickey’s not nervous. 

When the judge pronounces them husband and husband, Gallaghers and Milkovichs alike cheer loudly all around them, but Mickey doesn’t hear it as anything more than muffled background noise. Ian’s smile, bright and blinding, drowns out everything else. 

Later, when they get to The Alibi for the reception (planned by Fiona and Mandy, and not something either of them have any say in), Kev and V throw confetti all over them, which Mickey scowls at, briefly, but it’s not thirty seconds before he’s grinning again, because Ian’s laughing and that’s everything to him. 

Someone has strung white Christmas lights up on the ceiling, transforming the usually dark bar into something bright and almost magical. Because it’s not just a strand or two – no, it’s thousands of those little twinkling lights, probably every set in the neighborhood and then some – softly illuminating the room for just the two them and their love. 

“I feel like we should spread out a blanket and look for shooting stars next.” Ian comments, once the shock of the scene wears off somewhat. 

It takes Mickey a moment to place the words, but as soon as he does he’s rolling his eyes and nudging Ian’s shoulder softly. “You wish, firecrotch.” 

Neither of them stop smiling for the rest of the evening. 

***

Most people, at one point or another throughout the course of the night, feel the need to make speeches. 

Lip is the first one, about two hours into the festivities. Besides Liam and Cody, and Ian and Mickey themselves, Ian’s brother, and unofficial best man, is the only person who remains completely sober throughout the night. Because of this, his words ring with unexpected affection. 

“My brother and his husband,” Lip begins once he has everyone’s attention, which he gets by standing up on a chair in the middle of the room and whacking his pocket knife against the side of a glass mug until Kev turns the music down and everyone is looking at him, “are the best couple I’ve ever known. And I know that’s the kinda shit everyone says at weddings – I’ve watched enough happily-ever-after romance movies with Debbie and Fiona over the years that I definitely know that much,” everyone laughs at that, “but with Mickey and Ian it’s true. They’re the best. Ian, little brother,” he seeks out the redhead’s gaze, and raises his glass in his direction once he finds it, “you saved my life, man. You really did. If it weren’t for you, I’d be no better than Frank right now –”

“Hey!” The patriarch of the Gallagher clan shouts his protest from somewhere near the back of the bar. No one had technically invited him to Mickey and Ian’s reception, but Frank always has been, and still is, a lot like a parasite: creeping up without warning and never wanted. 

Luckily, tonight, he settles down after a sharp rebuke from Fiona, “Shut the fuck up, Frank!” And Lip continues his speech unperturbed. 

“And Mickey, well, Mickey and I spent a lot of time hating each other, and I can’t claim that we’re best friends now,” Mickey nods slightly when Lip’s gaze falls on him, softly acknowledging the truth of his statement, “but there’s no one in the whole world better for my little brother. I truly believe that. You two are better with each other because you’re good for each other. I’ve seen it, been watching you guys for years now, and my son,” he chokes up a little at that, and when Mickey glances over, Ian’s blinking back tears as well, “Your son,” Lip clears his throat, “is the luckiest kid in the world, because he gets to see you two, every single day of his life. He gets to see what true love – love that isn’t toxic – looks like. And that’s more than any of us ever had, growing up.” 

Every Gallagher in the room, at least half the Milkovich’s, and a good percentage of everyone else, has tears in their eyes by the time Lip wraps up his speech. 

“So, here’s to you two,” Lip concludes, “for proving, once and for all, that the best love stories never end.” 

Everyone’s applauding by the time Lip jumps off the chair, crying and laughing, because – and even Mickey can admit this – his speech had been damn good. Ian drags him along as he makes a beeline for his brother, and for the first time all evening, the redhead lets go his hand. He uses both his arms to all but tackle his older brother, and Lip meets the display of affection with a resounding force of his own. 

“Our son.” Are the first words Ian says when he finally pulls back. “Cody is all of ours. And he’s better for it.” 

Lip nods, over and over again he nods, until eventually he chokes out what must be the only words he has left. “I’m proud of you, little brother. I love you.” 

Ian returns the sentiment and they hug twice more. Mickey has a fleeting thought that Cody deserves to have this man is his life. He’s known that, logically, for a while now; had agreed to it because it was the right decision for Ian and his nephew both, but only in this moment does he truly believe it. 

Lip Gallagher is worth the effort. And maybe, if Lip and Mandy get back together someday, Mickey will talk about this moment that’s happening right now at _their_ wedding – the moment he’d finally believed, with no coercion or ulterior motive, that despite his demons, Lip is a good man. 

Maybe. 

***

The rest of the speeches recycle a lot of the same sentiments as Lip’s, though every person manages to put their own spin on Mickey and Ian’s love. 

“I compare all of my relationships to my brother’s,” Debbie says to the room, “and I told Ian this once, a long time ago; that I want to find someone who loves me the way he loves Mickey, the way Mickey loves him. I haven’t yet, but watching you two…it makes me believe that someday I will. You guys make me believe in love.” 

Six months after Mickey and Ian’s wedding, Debbie meets a man in London that she falls head over heels in love with. They date for two years, break up for three, and then run into each other again, completely by chance, at a coffee shop in New York City. They get married the next fall, less than ten miles away from the apartment Ian had lived in once upon a lifetime ago. Debbie’s best friend from college is her maid of honor, but Mandy is a bridesmaid, and Micky doesn’t even mind going back to New York for the ceremony, because nothing about Ian’s past scares him anymore. 

***

“We weren’t raised by a good man,” Iggy declares some hours later, and though his words are for Mickey and Ian, he mostly keeps his eyes on Gracie, “Terry Milkovich was a terrible person, and a worse father, and we’re all glad he’s dead. But I look at my brother and his…fuck, his _husband_. That’s so fucking strange to say,” everyone chuckles at that, because Iggy’s lack of sobriety is making him exceptionally honest. “And it makes me…it makes me so fucking _proud_. Proud that Mickey could grow up with all of that shit and come out so goddamn _good_. I love you, brother. And fuck Terry.” 

A chorus of _fuck Terry_ ’s ring out across the bar. Ian leans over and kisses Mickey’s temple. “He’s right.” The redhead whispers. “I’m so fucking proud of you.” 

A year later, Iggy and Gracie get married. Bethany is the maid of honor, and Mickey gets drunk at the reception and gives a long, almost rambling speech about how much of an asshole Terry Milkovich had been and how proud he is of his brother, for proving their father wrong. When Iggy gives him shit later, about the content of that speech, Mickey just smirks and calls it fair play. 

***

“I’ve known Ian his whole life,” Fiona announces to the entire reception when it’s her turn, “I raised him, and all my other siblings, like they were my own. Because they are. I’ve never given birth, but I raised five kids all the same, and I’ve never seen any of them as happy as Ian is with Mickey. So, I wish you both a lifetime of the same happiness that we’re all seeing here tonight. And Mickey,” Fiona turns to him, face morphing suddenly into that terrifying one she makes sometimes when she’s well and truly _not fucking around_ , “if you ever hurt him, if you _ever_ hurt my little brother, I will bury you in a shallow grave in my backyard without thinking twice about it. Got me?” There’s a scattering of nervous laughter, but Mickey just nods solemnly. If Terry had left his kids with anything useful, it was a rather keen sense of self preservation, and he knows better than most that Fiona is anything but joking. 

Jimmy and Fiona never wind up having kids of their own. Jimmy says he’s always been pretty neutral about the whole idea – that while he’d been raised in an environment where a “proper” wife and two or three kids had always been painted as the inevitable outcome of his life, he himself had never felt that strongly about the reality of it. Had Fiona wanted kids of her own, he would have been thrilled, but he’s perfectly okay with the fact that she doesn’t, too. 

They raise Liam together, until the youngest Gallagher sibling is old enough to venture out into the world on his own, but most of their time after that is spent travelling. Even before Liam turns eighteen, Fiona and Jimmy travel a lot – Liam spends plenty of time at the Milkovich house over the years, and eventually Iggy’s old bedroom becomes his. Technically, Liam is Cody’s uncle, but the two of them grow up like brothers. 

Years later, once Liam’s well and truly an adult and the rest of the Gallagher siblings have families of their own, Fiona and Jimmy settle down again back in Chicago. They realize that they miss having kids around, and decide to become foster parents. The state agencies love them, because they’re not afraid to take in the “troubled” kids. Fiona might have appreciated the break, and god knows she’d deserved it, but raising kids is in her blood, and eventually the Gallaghers aren’t the only ones who benefit from that. 

***

“The first time Ian ever told me he was gay, Mickey was there, too.” Carl’s a lot drunker than any of the other people who have spoken so far – his life these days doesn’t leave much room for indulgence in alcohol, but because this is a special occasion, he’d hit the bar hard and fast, and is stumbling over himself by the time he decides to get up and add to the chorus of Mickey and Ian love story tales. “I didn’t know he was there ‘cause he was in love with my brother,” Carl pauses briefly to burb, which garners several groans and quite a few laughs from throughout the crowd, “I actually kinda thought Ian was in love with Jimmy’s dad, back then, but that was only because –”

“Carl!” Ian shouts, abruptly derailing his brother’s train of thought with an incredulous expression and wild arm wave. 

“What?” Mickey asks his husband – fucking _husband_ , goddamn – innocently, “The geriatric douchebag ain’t good wedding talk?” Mickey’s long since gotten over his jealousy about Ned – or any of the other guys Ian’s been with besides him. He doesn’t love being reminded of it, but right now, Ian’s embarrassment and Carl’s drunken ramblings are taking a front seat to any leftover insecurity. 

“I’mma kill him.” Ian says firmly, shaking his head. “If he ever gets married, I’m bringing a copy of his mugshot to the reception.” 

“I’m gonna remind you that you said that.” Mickey promises. And he does. Many years later, he actually finds (well, gets Cody to find) a bakery that can put said mugshot onto a cake. Ian presents it to Carl at the younger man’s wedding reception and gets a face full of it for his efforts. Carl’s wife is a pretty laidback and generally awesome person and takes the entire feud in stride, having known about Carl’s past indiscretions long before then. She even joins in on the food fight that follows, taking Carl’s side against Mickey and Ian. The newlyweds eventually win, but only because it’s their day and Mickey and Ian let them. They stick to that story for the rest of their lives. 

“Anyway,” Carl says from the other side of the bar, redirecting his speech after Ian’s rebuke, “Mickey and Ian have been together since I was, like, twelve. I barely ever even knew a world where they weren’t the best fucking example of stability and shit in my life. And no offence Jimmy, but Mickey’s always gonna be favorite brother-in-law, ‘cause he saved my life, and that was kinda super fucking impressive because there were a bunch a dealers that wanted me dead. And the two of them…Ian and Mickey, they…they always…Holy shit, I can’t even remember what the fuck I was gonna say next.” 

“You’re cut off!” Kev yells from behind the bar. 

“Right, yeah, good call.” Carl responds, swaying a little where he’s standing. “I’d say welcome to the family, Mickey, but you’ve been part of the family for so fucking long that that doesn’t even make sense. So I guess, just…Congratulations on finally getting hitched. You guys took so long that nobody won the pool we had going.” 

“Here-here!” Lip adds, tossing his arm around Carl’s shoulders and leading him over to a table to sit down. 

After he graduates from military school, Carl spends four years in the Navy. 

He would have stayed longer, maybe even too long, but he gets hurt. He gets shot, actually, which leads to an honorable, medical discharge, a prestigious medal of honor, and almost two years of physical and mental therapy for the younger Gallagher. 

Carl stays with Debbie for the first few months after he gets sent home, – the two of them, because of their ages, much like Ian and Lip, have always been closer to each other than the others, more so as they’d gotten older – and he clings to the familiarity of that for a while. He’s not in a great place, at first, and in Debbie’s home he finds peace, quiet, and a place to wallow. Debbie allows him a window of time to feel sorry for himself, but she also closes that window with a resounding force once she feels like he’s dwelled in his own misery for too long. 

Like all of the Gallagher siblings, Debbie worries about one of them eventually turning into Frank, and when Carl starts drinking heavily to numb the pain of the things he’d done, the shit he’d seen, and the people he’d lost, she gets scared and sends him home. Just living in the same house as Fiona again seems to help the kid tremendously, and eventually she and Ian and Lip divvy up the duties of getting Carl the help he needs. 

Fiona zeroes in on the drinking immediately, refusing to let Carl follow the same path Lip had; she rids the house of any and all booze, makes sure no one else has any on hand, either, and actually steals Carl’s money so he can’t buy any on his own. It’s a thousand times more proactive than she’d ever been with Lip, but Carl is more her _kid_ than Lip ever had been. And moreover, as she likes to say, _“I learned my lesson the first time around. You wanna drink yourself to death, you ain’t doin’ it anywhere near this family. I won’t fucking let you.”_

Ian’s therapist recommends a shrink who specializes in post-traumatic stress related to combat, and for some reason that Mickey doesn’t quite understand, it instantly becomes Lip’s responsibility to get Carl to see him. It kind of pisses him off, if he’s being honest, and he confronts Lip about it a few weeks in, when it becomes apparent that his progress is lacking and none of the other Gallaghers think they’re the right ones to help. 

Lip accepts his criticism with a haughty expression and a sarcastic shrug, _“You think you can do better, be my guest.”_ Mickey accepts the challenge with bravado but doesn’t, much to his own annoyance and growing concern, do any better. A week passes and Carl’s acting more and more like Ian during a low period – which he’s pretty sure other people just call depression – and Lip tells him he’s tried everything short of physically forcing Carl to go see the doctor. 

Mickey says he’s game to try that, the physical force thing, if Lip thinks it’ll work. They both know Fiona and Ian, even Liam and Jimmy, would be against it, but Mickey’s never had the best sense of morality and Lip’s an asshole, so they decide to give it a go. In the end, Carl agrees to visit the shrink without any bodily coercion because, _“If you two are willing to work together, then I must be all kinds of fucked up.”_ Which isn’t technically wrong on any front, so they both kind of just nod along. 

Ian’s roll with Carl’s recovery is the most literal part of his actual _recovery_. The redhead takes on the responsibility of making sure Carl goes to his physical therapy – and sees it through. He pushes Carl on the exercises his trainer tells him to do at home, and always sells him out when he doesn’t put in the effort he should. 

Because of the inherent nature of pain, Ian winds up catching the most of backlash from Carl’s misery. The others help, of course – it’s not like any of them are alone in their endeavor to make sure Carl survives coming back from a life at war – but Ian tends to take the brunt. Mickey worries about both of them, but Ian will always be his top priority. 

Every time he offers his husband an out, though, Ian refuses to take it. _“I can handle it.”_ He always says. _“You don’t have to worry about me, okay? I can deal with any shit Carl throws at me when he’s like this, because it’s not really him. It’s trauma and PTSD and pain. I get that, Mickey. Hell, you probably get it even more. It’s not him.”_

Ian somehow manages to draw a parallel between his brother’s recovery and his own bipolar. Mickey worries that Ian’s punishing himself somehow, for his own guilt over how he acts when his disease flares up, but it turns out he’s wrong. He doesn’t have anything to worry about at all. Because Ian might end up catching the heavy end of the fallout, absorb the most of his brother’s pain, but that’s only because Ian’s stronger than all of them. It just takes Carl’s recovery for them to see that. 

Two years after he first gets sent home, Carl is physically healed and emotionally stable, but distinctly lacking for anything meaningful in his life after so many years of mission-focus. Lip gets him a job at his company, just for something to do, but filing paperwork and answering phones all day makes him restless and pissed off, which Mickey can’t blame him for one bit. 

Carl decides one day that Ian’s line of work might scratch a particular itch for him, but after a ride-along in the ambulance triggers a full-blown flashback and corresponding panic attack, they both decide that maybe it’s not a great idea – or at the very least, _too soon_ – for him to be surrounded by reminders of death and violence. 

Mickey’s not entirely sure how it happens – after those first few failed attempts to find Carl a place in the world – that the kid winds up working at an animal shelter, but the setting seems to suit him. Ian says there’s no great story behind it, that Carl had just been walking around one afternoon, saw a sign in a window, and gone for it. It’s a good thing he had, too, because that part-time cleanup gig eventually leads to a fulltime gig as a dog trainer – not like that Dog Whisperer dude who used to be on TV, but for service dogs, and later, police dogs. 

That’s the job he winds up sticking with; training police dogs. Because even after all he’s been through, he still wants to help people. He doesn’t have it in him anymore, after what he’s been through, to interact with human victims everyday – but he’s got a passion for animals that no one would have expected. He says it’s because he never has to question their loyalty. 

Mickey and Ian wind up adopting one of the German Shepherd puppies that gets rejected from Carl’s training program. Mickey’s against it first (what do they need a fucking _dog_ for, anyway? That’s just money they don’t have and daily annoyances), but Ian gives him that _look_ , so of course he caves. 

He actually takes to the four-legged beast pretty quick, naming him _Castle_ (which Ian and Carl both think is fantastic, considering their shared love for _The Punisher_ ) and teaching him how to growl threateningly on demand. Ian makes sure he’s trained to do other, more practical, shit, too, but Mickey gets a kick out of scaring assholes. Castle never really takes a liking to Lip; which Mickey absolutely _does not_ spend fourteen years gloating about. 

***

“Ian’s the only person I’ve ever met who could handle my big brother.” Mandy’s words get a smattering of chuckles from the crowd, and a very pointed middle finger from Mickey himself. She flicks him off right back in turn. “As a lot of you probably know, Ian and I were best friends long before he and my brother started boning.” She pauses there, looking deliberately thoughtful. “Although, I guess not really that long. It’s hard for me to remember it right because neither of them fucking _told me_ they were together for years.” 

Next to him, Ian groans. “I’m sorry!” He shouts up at her, barely containing his own laughter. 

“Oh, you’re gonna be.” Mandy promises, grinning wickedly. She goes back to addressing the crowd. “See, what Ian doesn’t seem to remember is that, before I knew about him and my brother, he used to talk to me for hours on end about _some guy_ he was seeing. I might not have known, at the time, who _some guy_ was, but I sure as shit remember everything Ian said about him.” 

On cue, because obviously she’s planned this, Mandy pulls several pieces of paper, folded up into one neat square, out of the back pocket of her jeans, and holds them up for everyone to see. “I’ve taken the liberty of writing all of those things down. And, as a wedding present to my older brother – who’s managed to settle down with the only guy in the world who could ever handle him, and is a better man for it – I’m going to give this to him. Because I don’t blame you for not wanting to come out of the closet sooner, Mickey, I really don’t.” She flashes Mickey a genuine smile. “But Ian? Ian, you’re my best friend in the world. And you shoulda fucking told me sooner.” 

Mickey’s amongst the masses laughing and clapping once Mandy finishes her speech. Ian, for only the second time that evening, leaves his side – disappearing in a mad dash to get to Mandy at the other end of the bar. Mickey, immediately understanding what he’s planning, sprints off after him a heartbeat later. “Don’t even think about it, bitch.” 

Mickey’s only a couple paces behind him, and the two of them scuffle for a few minutes once they reach Mandy – and she’s not the only one who pulls out her phone to record the newlyweds batting at each other like rambunctious children. Eventually Mickey gets Ian in a headlock and shoves Mandy’s list into his pocket while the redhead is flailing about. 

“Fair and square, Ian,” Mickey says once he lets him out of the grip, holding his hand out towards him when it looks like the younger man is going to make a grab for the front of his pants. 

The redhead gives both Milkovichs a dirty look but reluctantly steps back, arms raised in surrender. “Fine, fine,” he huffs. Then, to Mandy; who is, by this point, sitting at a table with Cody in her lap, the two of them wearing identical smirks, “That list better get me laid, Mandy.” 

Everyone close enough to hear Ian’s declaration laughs. Lip, from behind Debbie and slightly to Mickey’s left, says, “Now that’s a wedding video.” As he pockets his cell phone with a triumphant smirk. 

Mickey points at his brother-in-law. “I wanna copy of that, fuck-face.” 

Lip nods, dutifully saluting at the command. 

“Y’know, when you two decided to stop hating each other, this isn’t exactly how I thought it’d go for me.” Ian gripes, flinging an arm around Mickey’s neck and pulling him close enough to kiss the crown of his forehead affectionately. Mickey, despite their audience, leans into the embrace. 

***

As the night progresses, and people get drunker, the speeches eventually wind down. Kev gives the last official one, and halfway through a rather heartfelt monologue about Mickey and Ian’s love being second only to his and V’s, the taller man – wasted beyond comprehension at this point – sidetracks himself when he starts talking about when he’d first realized Mickey was gay. That somehow devolves into a conversation about the sexual orientation of various celebrities, and Mickey stops listening entirely when he hears V say, with complete seriousness, “Markey-Mark’s not gay.” 

“Hey, you ready to get outta here?” Ian, at his shoulder as he has been for most of the night, says softly. 

Mickey smiles to himself, because it doesn’t even surprise him anymore, when Ian reads his mind. “Yeah,” he says just as quietly, turning to face the other man fully, “let’s go home.” 

They say a quick round of goodbyes before they take off, because Ian’s a polite fucker like that, and somewhere in between Ian hugging Fiona and Jimmy awkwardly patting Mickey on the back, someone starts blasting _Love is a Battlefield_ on the stereo. 

They barely notice it at the time, but on the walk home Mickey and Ian both start singing the song at the top of their lungs. 

“ _Heartache to heartache we stand_ ,” they shout at each other, genuine joy lighting them both up from the inside out. “ _No promises, no demands_.” Ian jumps on Mickey’s back right as they turn onto their street, pumping his fist into the air as Mickey catches the taller man easily, carrying him piggyback-style for half a block before their combined laughter causes them to stumble. 

“ _We are strong_ ,” they finally settle down somewhat as they make it to their front door – the same spot they’d shared their very first kiss all those years ago, “ _no one can tell us we’re wrong_.” 

They’re already kissing as they cross the threshold for the very first time as a married couple. 

***

In deference to their newly married status (and out of sheer self-preservation) Mandy and Cody are staying at the Gallagher house for a few nights. Which means that when they get home, not only are Ian and Mickey alone, they know they’re going to _be_ alone, for the foreseeable future.

“This is mine now,” Mickey declares as soon as he shuts the door behind them, palming Ian’s cock through the soft material of his dress pants, “legally, this is fucking _mine_.” 

Ian laughs at his blunt assertion, but stops laughing abruptly when Mickey drops to his knees right there in the middle of their living room. The older man doesn’t waste a second undoing Ian’s pants, or getting his cock – hard, hot, waiting for him – in his mouth. He’s always liked sucking Ian’s dick – loved it, if he’s being honest – and one of his only regrets about Terry getting locked up the way he had is that Mickey had never gotten the chance to tell his father that. Rub it in his face that Mickey is as gay as the day is long and _fuck him_ for trying to make him hate himself for that. 

Ian’s fingers card through his hair and grip tight as Mickey continues to suck him. All the pent of energy from the wedding and reception getting to the both of them, making their breath ragged and their desire palpable. 

They’d managed a quickie in one of the courthouse bathrooms, but that had been hours ago, before the wedding. This is their first official fuck as a married couple, and Mickey is beyond happy to spend it on his knees in front of his husband. Because sucking Ian off…it’s never felt like a chore, or an act of submission. In fact, considering all the ways Mickey very much enjoys being submissive when it comes to sex, blowjobs are one thing he loves where he feels completely, one hundred percent in control. 

Because he might be on his knees with Ian’s dick in his mouth, but Mickey is the one controlling everything about this moment. He sucks hard and Ian writhes above him, he slows down – palms at the base and rolls his balls in his hand – and Ian shudders and begs him to stop teasing. And when he finally _does_ stop teasing, putting all his effort into bringing Ian the most pleasure in as little time as possible, the redhead is totally, and beautifully, at his mercy. 

“God fucking damn,” Ian breathes once he’s come, panting heavily and leaning against the arm of the couch, trying to find his bearings. “I thought married people were supposed have, like, boring, non-existent –”

“Shut up, firecrotch,” Mickey cuts him off, standing up and shuffling into Ian’s space, kissing him once, twice, probably half a dozen times, firmly. “If I thought getting hitched was gonna ruin _this_ , I never woulda agreed to it.” 

Ian chuckles, finally getting his breath back. “God, I love you so fucking much.” 

Mickey smirks proudly. Then, after another handful of kisses, he takes Ian’s face between his palms and says. “You ruined me, man. You know that?” He feels lightheaded and so, so happy. Giddy. Almost like he’s floating, but grounded, too. Safe. 

Safer than he’s ever felt before in his life. 

Ian presses even farther into his space, resting their foreheads together. “How so?” 

“For anyone else, I mean.” Mickey elaborates, lacing his fingers together behind the younger man’s neck. “A long time ago. You just fucking…I knew you were it for me, y’know? That no one else would ever even come close.” 

Ian nudges their noses together, breathing his next words into Mickey’s skin. “When did you know?” 

“Ian…” Mickey’s breath hitches, because he means to sound teasingly annoyed, but his voice comes out layered with emotion instead. 

“Was it here?” Ian continues to prod, words gentle with affection. “Was it in this house that I day I showed up here with a crowbar? Was it the first time you kissed me?” 

“Yeah,” Mickey breathes, “it was somewhere in there.” 

“Yeah.” Ian chuckles softly and kisses the corner of Mickey’s mouth. He can probably still taste himself on Mickey’s lips. “Somewhere in there we both figured out that we can’t live without each other.” 

“This.” Mickey says automatically. 

“Us.” Ian responds, dipping down farther to mouth a wet trail along the side of Mickey’s neck. 

“You fucking ruined me,” Mickey says again, laughing breathlessly and turning his head, baring his neck for Ian’s lips and tongue. “Anyone else, any other life, it never woulda been enough for me. This is us. I know we say that all the fucking time, and I can barely even remember how it started anymore,” he pauses briefly to sigh, because Ian’s doing that thing to his collarbone and it’s distracting as fuck, “but it’s more than just…it’s _it_ , y’know? Us. Always.”

Ian pulls back slightly until their eyes meet, his head cocked to the side and his expression drawn with mock consideration. “I thought we said no wedding vows?” 

Mickey runs his tongue over his teeth and shrugs, not quite managing to bite back his grin. “We also said no sex in the living room after Cody found lube under the couch. Whaddya gonna do?” 

Ian tosses his head back with a loud laugh. “I’m gonna take you to bed and fuck you until the sun comes up.” One of his hands slides down Mickey’s back and settles on the curve of his ass, squeezing firmly. “That’s what’s I’m gonna do.” 

Mickey leans forward and nips at Ian’s jaw, chuckling when the younger man yelps softly. “That’s some big talk, tough guy.” He drags his nails down the redhead’s chest. “You sure you’re gonna be able to deliver?” 

“You seriously doubting me right now?” Ian licks his lips and raises his eyebrows challengingly. 

“Lotta hours between now and the sunrise,” Mickey flashes his teeth in a grin, “not sure you got it in you, is all I’m saying.” 

“Watch it, Mick,” Ian gets his free hand in between Mickey’s shoulder blades, using all his strength to hold them together, “that’s your husband you’re talking about.” 

“Don’t I know it.” Mickey agrees, eyes glinting with mischief and love. He cards both his hands through Ian’s hair, releasing a deep breath that he hadn’t, up until that very moment, even known he’d been holding. “All mine.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s it, ladies and gents, that’s all she wrote! 
> 
> Well, I mean, not _really_. There’s gonna be one last final chapter of additional story nuggets, gap fillers, deleted scenes, that kinda stuff. But _officially_ , this is the very last true final end. And I wanna thank everyone’s who read, commented, kudo’s, or just enjoyed this story in any way, shape, or form. I appreciate every kind word of encouragement, I really do. I wish I had found the Gallavich fandom a long time ago, guys – I fucking love it here <3
> 
> If anyone has anything they’d like to see included in my Bonus Chapter (hesitantly titled “I Like Happy Endings Too Much to Leave This AU Behind Yet”) of Random Crap, feel free to drop me a line – I’m still adding to it, and have gotten some great prompts already (Thanks, alter_alterego :D) Or, y’know, any thoughts at all are always met with gratitude and grins and overall glee : ) Thanks again!


	19. Spiderwebbing Infinities of Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sometimes staring into Mickey’s eyes is like reading the last page of the book first._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, go check out the AWESOME cover art graphic that Violet_Jones created for me for this story! It’s absolutely _amazing_ <3
> 
> Second of all, a bit about the layout of this chapter: It’s broken up into sections, and none of them are in chronological order or connected, though some do have breaks within themselves due to length (designated by my normal ***), and POVs do switch section to section. I think it’s pretty easy to follow, but please let me know if anything’s confusing in any way. 
> 
> There was more that I initially I wanted to include in this, but I got writer’s block like whoa (which is why this is up so late), so I figured I’d just finish what I had in the works and post it as is, and anything that may or may not come later will be a one-shot. 
> 
> Hells bells and seashells, guys, this is well and truly the end of this story. Finally. It’s been one hell of a ride, and I want to thank all of you, again, for taking it with me. I adore this fandom so much, and cannot tell you how much I love the responses I’ve gotten to this. Muse willing, this will not be my last foray into the wide, wonderful world of Gallavich <3

**Spiderwebbing Infinities of Forever** :

_A Random Collection of Snippets_

==================================================

Ian’s pretty sure that he’s the only person in the world who’s allowed to take the fact that Lip’s a genius for granted.

Fiona’s older than them, had raised them, and for as much as she’s still very much their sister, she’s also their parent in a lot of ways, too. And as they’d gotten older, Lip had made it obvious to her that his gifts weren’t something that he would ever allow her to take advantage of – that he would resent her, if she tried to use them to her advantage in any way. 

He’s drawn the same line, even more firmly, with Frank, Monica, his friends, girlfriends, teachers, and even Carl and Debbie, over the years. He won’t do other people’s homework unless he’s getting paid for it, he won’t help Frank run scams unless something’s in it for him, too, and he won’t let Carl and Debbie be lazy. He’ll never be anything he’s not, just because he could. 

Ian’s different, though, and they’ve both always known it. 

With barely a year between them, Lip and Ian had grown up in each other’s pockets, and fought back to back every time the world had tried to knock them down. They fight with each other, too, more so than either of them ever will with anyone else, but that’s just part of it. 

The brothers Gallagher.

==================================================

“It just seemed easy for Mandy.” Mickey shrugs. Frank is still snoring loudly on the couch, but the rest of the house is silent. Ian had thought they were done talking about all of this, at least for tonight, but the episode Ian had had in the car earlier has been on Mickey’s mind, evidently, and he’d brought it up, the way Mandy had handled it – handled him. “I’m not pissed. I’m just…” He waves his hand around, and Ian hears, _jealous, scared, impatient_.

“I don’t know,” the redhead shrugs, because he doesn’t, not the way he knows other things. He can never be one hundred percent sure about what he feels during his episodes because he only experiences them firsthand, and most of the time, when he tries to think about what happens during them objectively, all he winds up doing is remembering Monica. “That just works sometimes, I guess. She’s kinda used to it. I was fucked up, way more fucked up than I am now, for a long time before I left. And she was there for a lot of that.” 

Mickey looks away dejectedly. “And I wasn’t.” 

Ian cringes. “That wasn’t your fault.” 

“Like fuck it wasn’t.” He bites with a flare of genuine anger, and Ian cringes even though he knows it’s not directed at him. 

“No, that was your dad’s fault.” He says, ignoring his own spike of irrational fear, managing to sound as determined as he feels. Mickey’s head snaps up, and Ian can tell that he’s surprised. “It was.” He presses, because for as much as they’ve talked about everything, they haven’t talked about this. “I blame Terry for you getting locked up, okay? Not Iggy or Colin, not the cops, and sure as fuck not you.” 

“I wasn’t here.” He whispers.

“The timing sucked.” Ian agrees with a gentle smile. “But it’s not like you knew I was gonna have a mental breakdown while you were gone.” 

Mickey snorts, and it almost sounds normal. 

“Part of the reason Mandy’s no bullshit thing always worked so well was because it reminded me of you.” Ian tells him. Mickey’s eyes go wide, and the redhead takes a deep breath. He doesn’t want to be saying this, but Mickey needs to hear it so he will. “It’s also part of the reason I stayed with Nate for so long.” 

“Because he reminded you of me?” Mickey sounds angry and hurt. Ian cringes, because of course Mickey sounds like that. He only knows the worst things about Nathan. 

“I told you, it wasn’t all bad with us.” He sighs, a little annoyed, but mostly just guilty. “Sometimes he would say shit and I would just…Especially when my brain was all fucked up, or I was high. The way he talked, not the things he did,” Ian emphasizes, running his hand up Mickey’s thigh in an attempt to soothe, “just the words he said sometimes, I would forget that it wasn’t you. So I stayed because I wanted to remember. And for a lot of other reasons that had nothing to do with you so you don’t get to feel guilty for it, okay?”

Mickey sighs deeply and nods, but Ian gets the sense that he still doesn’t understand, not entirely at least, so he keeps going. 

“Everything that happened while I was gone was fucked up. Everything. The only time it felt like it wasn’t was when my brain, this stupid fucking disease in my head, tricked me into thinking everything was normal again. You were a part of that, but so was my family.” Ian cocks his head to the side, remembering. “I had this friend out there, this woman named Cassie that worked at my doctor’s office and lived a couple blocks away from Nate. She was probably the best person I met while I was gone, and a lot of the reason I spent so much time with her was because she reminded me of Fiona. And had a son who reminded me of Liam.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything, but his expression softens noticeably, so Ian keeps talking. 

“There was this club that I worked at, this shit hole that I probably shoulda ditched a helluva lot sooner than I did, but I stuck around because there was this DJ that reminded me _so much_ of Lip, and I missed my brother.” He takes a steadying breath. “So, it wasn’t just Nate reminding me of you, alright? It was a lot of fucked up shit that happened all at once. And besides brain chemistry and genetics, there’s no one to blame for that.” 

A beat passes, and then another. Ian makes sure his gaze doesn’t waver. Eventually Mickey’s shoulders sag and he tilts his head back, leans his body closer to Ian’s. 

“I still hate Nathan.” The brunette tells him, but he doesn’t sound hurt anymore – just resolved. Ian takes the win. 

“Hate him all you want, Mick, but it’s a little moot. We’re never gonna see him again.” 

“Damn right we’re not.” The older man huffs. 

Later that night while they’re lying in bed together, Ian’s struck with a memory, and while it’s a risky topic to bring up, he decides that the benefits outweigh the potential pitfalls. 

“I used to say your name while we were fucking.”

Mickey turns towards him, eyebrows arched in a perfect display of confusion. “What?”

“Nate.” Ian says, aiming for casual. He licks his lips and shrugs, grabbing at Mickey’s hand and playing idly with a few of his fingers, tracing over the letters on his knuckles. “I used to call him _Mickey_ while we were fucking. Like, a lot. Just. Y’know. If that makes you feel better.” 

Mickey doesn’t say anything, but when Ian chances a glance, he finds the older man smirking proudly.

==================================================

Ian blinks dumbly at Carl from the bathroom doorway. The pastel polo shirt with the popped collar is bad enough, but it’s tucked into these really tight pants that just – yeah, Ian hadn’t wanted to know that much about what his little brother was packing, thanks.

“Something wrong?” Carl quirks an eyebrow at him in the mirror, focused almost entirely on twisting and pinching bunches of his hair together with some fruity smelling gel. 

“Uh, nice outfit.” Ian clears his throat and tries, rather unsuccessfully, not to laugh. 

“What? A straight dude ain’t allowed to rock a lilac shirt?” Carl asks, staring at him almost challengingly. 

Before Ian can respond, Mickey’s voice sounds out behind them: “He is if he calls it purple.” 

Ian snorts. “Fuck, man,” he turns around to look at his boyfriend, but Mickey is already gone, footsteps echoing on the staircase. He glances back at his brother. “Drive-by burns hurt the worst.” 

Carl just rolls his eyes and goes back to his primping.

==================================================

“What are you doing?” Mickey sounds mystified and a little worried.

Ian looks over at him and blinks owlishly, flicks his tongue under his lip a few times, gets lost for a while, and then comes back - moments strung together like silly putty in the sand. Only Mickey’s eyebrow quirks right that second, tickling the rest of his face with curiosity, and Ian knows it’s barely been any time at all. 

“Thinking.” He answers the question, because he remembers that he’d been asked one. But he’d only had the right answer, a workable answer, at the very tip of his tongue where he’d needed it because he’d cheated. Sometimes staring into Mickey’s eyes is like reading the last page of the book first. 

“Thinking about what?” Mickey asks, almost too patiently. There didn’t used to be that much softness. Ian wants to flop down inside of it and never come out, wants to be softer again himself, to share. 

“A lot.” Ian remembers to say, feels the words in the air more than sees them. “About why I left the light on.”

Mickey points up to the ceiling, the sheltered bulb above them. “That light?” 

Ian hums. The light had been important, because it had helped him focus. He usually doesn’t turn that light on, but he had today. To help him pay attention to the patterns in his head, the thoughts that had been trying, still are, to get away from him. A few in particular had been important, and Mickey standing in front of him now reminds him. 

“Have I ever told you about the spiderwebbing infinities of forever?”

“Holy shit.” Mickey breathes, mostly full of awe. Ian feels proud, but also like that feeling is ironic. Or maybe just wrong. He doesn’t remember what irony isn’t, anymore. “How fucking high are you right now?” 

“Yes.” He nods. “But that’s not the point.” He’s impatient. Was before, too, but Mickey’s words trigger something, a muted warning bell: this is temporary. “Actually, it is, but that part’s later, because weed grows in nature, and the pulsating interconnected nanoseconds of knowledge spin around and there’s wind and creation and _that’s_ why we have to know and why we _can_ know.” He pauses, “I guess not later.” and then laughs at himself. “But, and this should be the first part: there are other universes. No. Dimensions. Like, realities that could exist, and do, but not here. Except when we can see them, and feel them, and _be_ them, only not.” 

Ian pauses for what feels like an incredibly significant amount of time. He gets lost again. He comes back when Mickey sits down on the couch next to him and leans against him, shoulder to shoulder, knee over knee. Mickey’s soft. And so good. 

Ian wants to share everything with him and almost cries because he _can’t_. Because the universe, the understanding, when you become this forever kind of love – swinging in a hammock above a mountain enveloped by billowing fog at the top of the universe – it’s so distracting. Ian’s distracted. He forgets why he was sad. 

He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the mountain.

Mickey touches his knee and his jaw unclenches. Ian’s jaw. Because he’d been sad before but now he’s not. Mickey takes that away just by being. And being here. 

“And so much is happening in every one of them, y’know? Everything is happening in each of them. Like one right on top of each other. Or like light waves going over and under and everywhere, but never touching, at least never much.” Ian has to catch his breath and remember that time isn’t working right now, so he can’t take it too seriously. Because it’s been a really long time since the beginning. He’s far away. “And we control it, but only when we’re like this, high on the shit literally handed to us by nature. Because we’re supposed to do this, to feel this. Because we all have to know, for a different moment. And then, sometimes we know we know, but we also know we don’t know, which is how we really know we know. The hammock comes back then. And then is now, like right now, but it won’t last, but over and over with everyone in different ways all the time. That’s what keeps the spiderwebbing infinites alive.” 

Ian’s satisfied for now, because that had been the hardest part, but he’d gotten it all out. Maybe not in order, and maybe Mickey’s head is tilted like he doesn’t understand, but Ian does, and that’s enough, because it’s the same. 

“I’m sure that made sense to you,” the darker-haired boy says carefully, like he’s trying to keep his bearings and find Ian’s at the same time, “but seriously. What in the _fuck_?”

“I’m so fucking glad you’re here.” Ian lifts his chin up and smiles serenely, like he’s never seen a creaky staircase in a dark basement ever before in his entire life. 

He knows what it looks like, can see it and feel it in the other forevers. “I know that in some of these it doesn’t work, that we get it wrong, that we never find each other, or that we spend too long looking, or not looking, or not wanting to. I know that in one of them it’s really hard, and I know that that one could be this one, I’m not _unaware_ of that, but I also know that it’s not this one. Not right now. And that’s why I’m so glad you’re here. You won’t let me go.” 

Mickey’s expression changes, darkens and softens at the same time; a promise that cuts deeper than forever. “No, I won’t.” 

“So you can’t leave, okay? Not ever. Not even if I tell you to or I think I want you to. That’s important. Because there are so many empty spaces and I can’t, I really actually just _can’t_ let my real one become one. Okay?” 

“Yeah.” Mickey swallows thickly. Maybe he understands and maybe he doesn’t, but Ian does, and that’s all that matters. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I really hope that’s true. I hope we end up in one of the good ones. I hope this one just stays real.” Ian sighs. He wishes he didn’t have to think about the maybes. Then he realizes that he knows everything right now except his own ending. “I wonder if I can’t see all of mine because, I mean, I’m _me_ , and some part of me will hang onto it. Like, be able to sense the future and that would change things. Maybe that’s why I can’t know.” 

Mickey doesn’t ask him to make sense. He hasn’t, actually, at all since he got here, but Ian can’t even see it at all anymore, that he’s lost. Because he’s not. Mickey knows exactly what Ian needs. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

“I know you mean that, because I can hear it and feel it and be it and smell…absolutely everything. So, I know. And I know because you’re you and I’m yours. Maybe that’s all I know. But you meaning it doesn’t make the future come true. Unless it does. But that’s a whole other one, okay? Right now, this one, I just…” Ian trails off, staring and smiling for a long time. He thinks galaxies probably form and die, in the time it takes him to stop looking at Mickey. Even then, he’s still looking, but he’s looking _and_ being now. Just looking is better, he likes the inside of his head and the silent chaos that’s pretty loud, not chaotic at all, and probably needs a different name. 

“I love you so much that it feels like a thing. Like a solid, marble, permanent thing etched into the core of the universe. But also everything. Not the only everything, but the everything that exists around all the rest of it. Like wisps of fairytales, that leftover magic stuff, the kind we made together.” 

Mickey looks stunned, almost too pale for some reason all of a sudden, but in a happy kind of way. Ian reaches out and runs his thumb over the other boy’s lip. It’s soft. Ian wants to kiss it. Ian wants to remember himself kissing it at the same moment the action first occurs. Amplify the experience until it burns too bright to touch. Maybe that’s all déjà vu is – memories of remembering memories. Like, biological, DNA memories. The stuff from when they were cavemen. Universal overlaps. Maybe there are time ones, too, right on top, or under, or both. 

“Maybe it doesn’t even move like waves,” he shares the thought as soon as he has it, maybe even before, because this is Mickey and he always wants to share everything with Mickey, “maybe it’s like tunnels, digging new paths fast and over and around, but never touching. Like that one screensaver that all the school computers used to have? The one with the pipes? Over, through, moving, almost dancing, but never bending. Do you think bends are important?” 

Mickey would have a good answer to that, Ian’s sure, under different circumstances, broader ones, with more brushstrokes. But time doesn’t make sense and Mickey seems more solid than usual. “You need anything, man?” He asks instead. “If we’re gonna keep this up…yeah. _Fuck_. You hungry?”

Ian’s tongue darts out of his mouth, briefly, searching for a sense memory. “I had a s’mores.”

“That _you_ made?” Mickey sounds startled. Ian thinks about fire and their gas stove, and is pretty sure he understands why. 

“It was glorious.” He has to tell him anyway. “It was the best accomplishment I will probably ever make in my life. Nothing will ever compare to that s’mores.” 

“Not even sex?” Mickey’s biting his lip, teasing. 

“I want to have sex with you for hours. Forever.” Ian replies. He’s not teasing. There’s a reason _forever_ is one word instead of two. “Fuck you until you come again and again and again and all over both of us, but my dick’ll still be hard because,” Ian pauses, sniffs, thinks too long, not a second, but longer, time might be dead now, “because I’m infinity, and I wanna watch and feel and fucking love on you, in you, _with_ you, until you’re shaking and maybe I’ll be calm enough by then, sober I guess, and it’ll end the way it’s supposed to and we’ll fall asleep and we’ll wake up in the morning and you’ll make fun of me or worry or whichever way that one’s meant to go, but we’ll be together and real again and I’m kinda worried now that you’re mad at me.” 

Mickey face is serious again, deeper than before. Ian keeps shifting the moments and not leaving any breadcrumbs. Mickey keeps up so well that Ian forgets time is linear. 

“I’m not.” 

Ian believes him because he has no reason not to. Mickey always says when he’s angry. “Please don’t be lying.” 

“When have I ever not told you when I’m pissed?” That incredulous eyebrow is back, and Ian loves, loves, loves so much. 

“How many brains are we right now?” He asks, because those had been his thoughts first. 

“You really want me to answer that?”

“It’s okay, I already know. And I know what I’m supposed –”

“Please, jesus, Ian,” Mickey cuts him off, exasperated and tired, “not the _I know what I know because I fucking know_ thing again. If you think that shit tracks, man …well, then again, you are really fucking lit right now.” 

Ian hums happily, still grinning – maybe he hasn’t stopped. Maybe his jaw aches for a whole different reason. 

He flicks his lip again. “My throat hurts.” 

Mickey eyes the water bottle on the coffee table. “You been drinking that?” 

“Mm-hm,” Ian nods. “Not a no-water hurt. The smoke.” 

“Right.” Mickey nods. “It’s been a while.” 

“Little long while.” Ian licks his teeth. “I want a cigarette.” He wants to lean his head against the back of the couch, too, but he can’t do that because as soon as the cushion is under his skull he knows he won’t move again. Well, he will, and it might even be better, but his neck muscles are good for now; rigid. Helping him focus. “Split a cigarette with me.” 

“That’s gonna make you higher.” 

“That’s why I haven’t yet. I was waiting. Til I started to feel… you know what I mean, that fade. Like it’s sad, or pisses you off, but you don’t feel the full force of why you’re angry or devastated because as it fades so does the reality that you’re feeling things about. Like it’s self-containable. It makes and breaks itself, again and again and again.” 

“That’s the best reason I’ve ever heard for wanting to smoke a cigarette.” Mickey deadpans, a little cheeky towards the end. 

Ian perks up. “You have a cigarette?” 

Mickey laughs and pulls a pack out of some place or another. Ian sees that his boyfriend is wearing clothes – even vaguely remembers him coming in from outside, ages ago now – and he’ll think of what they’re called, those places where the cigarettes come from, later. But for now, all he sees are Mickey’s fingers, his tattoos. 

Ian reaches for one, and the hand it’s attached to; the boy. His finger has the letter U on it. Dark ink. Darker than the dark on Ian’s side, or Lip’s chest, or Kev’s leg. Mickey’s darker because he’s lighter. More beautiful. 

“Don’t go gettin’ any ideas there, Gallagher.” Mickey lights the cigarette without dislodging Ian’s grip. “Fucker stoner.” 

“Got a lot of ideas.” He knows he doesn’t know what Mickey is talking about. He also knows he’ll remember later, or learn it. 

His teeth hurt. 

“Take a drag, man.” Mickey’s hand is on his neck. Ian feels it. It’s the only feeling, for moments that last longer than heartbeats. His body remembers the mechanisms; they’re familiar, easy, and make everything come back. 

“The smoke hurts.” 

Mickey takes the cigarette away. Ian’s thumb is still pressed into Mickey’s jet-black U. Probably too hard. He forgets to feel. Can’t feel what it’s like to not. 

He reaches for the water. Mickey helps. Ian can’t remember if he’d held the cigarette, or if Mickey had. The moment feels like a mirror; still happening, happening again, happening different ways, happening every way. 

“I love you.” Ian says. He hears himself sounding curious, even though he’s not confused at all, never has been about Mickey. “You.” He repeats, trying to get Mickey to feel it, pressing down softer on the tattoo. He lifts the digit and kisses it, kind of a breath with a promise in it. He almost gets distracted again but doesn’t. “Is that what I’ll remember later?” 

“I’ve never seen you this fucking gone, man.” Mickey laughs. Stars explode, dead because it’s all too much, and it’s in Ian’s head, the everything, and stars are mostly dead already so why not obliterate a few to make something beautiful. “What? What’re you looking at me like that for?” 

“You have no idea what you can do.”

“That bad?” Mickey asks, like he really doesn’t know, and like it won’t upset him, either way, because he trusts Ian. 

Something clicks. 

“I think they put the universe in your eyes.” 

Mickey snorts. “Holy shit, man.” 

“No, no, not like poetry and dead roses.” Ian insists. “Like literally. I know I can see the universe, it’s in my head, all of it, and all of them, because the circuits work like that. Only, only it’s beautiful and like magic, not machines.” He breathes deep, takes a sip of water. Swallows and feels the pain that shouldn’t be there, isn’t really, except it is. “But it’s in me, or the memory of it is, and it feels real enough to count, to be important, but it’s inside me and it’s infinite. So, it gets out, too, okay? Escapes. Reflects. I feel it so much that I have to be able to see it, too, probably, or it’d kill me. So, they put it in your eyes.” 

Mickey’s next breath sounds shaky. Ian doesn’t get why, because his sudden understanding, the words he’d just released and let land at will, feel solid enough to climb for hours, days, long after it’s all gone and everything is safer, sadder. When the fade begins. 

“Lemme hit the cigarette again.” 

“Here.” Mickey lifts his other hand, with the other letters. Ian’s thumb still has claim on his second U. It takes him a few seconds to follow the other boy’s movement, the smoke, the filter and fingers at his lips. 

Time hasn’t been working right for a while, and that hadn’t mattered before, but now Ian feels it like a weight. A solid one, mostly, no sharp edges; though occasionally there’s a flash of something, a sting. Something crackling, lightening static, in the back of his mind. 

“I’m scared.” 

“Of what?” Mickey’s voice is soft, perfect, strong. Mickey is soft, and strong, and so perfect. Ian isn’t any of those things, not nearly enough. The fade is coming because he knows that’s true without having to chase a thread of proof through an intricate chasm of otherworldly projection. 

“Fuck.” Ian sighs. “I forgot where I was going.”

“You said you were scared.” 

“Yeah.” Ian remembers but doesn’t. “I’m not anymore. Well, maybe a little. Not because I know I should be, just because I remember what it’s like. But I remember everything else, too, so it’s not as big as it could be. Not that strong.” He pauses, looks over. Blue. Blue. Everything’s blue. “You make it go away more. I don’t think I remembered to tell you earlier. You make me feel safe.” 

Mickey’s breath definitely hitches this time, and Ian loves him. 

“Ian,” Mickey starts, stops for a second, seems to be getting kind of lost himself, “look, I dunno if you’re gonna remember this, you baked-ass hippy mother fucker,” Ian grins, “but you’ve always done that, okay? For me. The…the safe thing. You’ve always been…” Ian’s smile turns soft, a Mickey kind of soft that’s as much dancing heartstrings as it is stolen strength. “Just…so you know. Fuck, are you gonna remember this? _Shit_.” 

Mickey leans over a little, rests his head in his hand. Just the one hand, because Ian still has the other. He’s not letting his U go anytime soon. Ian blinks, but it lasts too long because his eyelids sting. “I’ll remember.” Ian tells him with a gentle shrug. “I’ll remember more than I know right now, and it’ll change everything.” 

“God, don’t say shit like that.” Mickey insists. Ian can’t tell if he means it or not – which usually means the truth is split right down the middle. 

It’s been so long now, so long since all this started, and Ian can’t help it when he finally, fucking goddamn _finally_ , lets his head tilt back against the couch, eyes closed, the memory of Mickey and the universe burning in the dark. 

“It’s not scary.” Ian tells him. It’s important that Mickey knows this, so he doesn’t get them mixed up. “Sometimes it _can_ be scary, really scary – the forever that doesn’t end, that kills you, that makes me something else and scares you so much I forget how to breathe.”

“Ian.” 

“Mmm,” the redhead cuts him off, that one little sound coming out firm. His face feels tighter now, not just his jaw, because he doesn’t have to feel the emotion to know it’s there, to show it to Mickey. He knows Mickey can read it. “No. Don’t think about that one. That one doesn’t matter. I mean it does. It’s ours, but I want to take the other parts back with me, too.” 

“No way whatever you smoked wasn’t laced with something.” Mickey comments after a brief (long, maybe) silence, his voice fuller than before. “I’m texting Mandy. How much of this did you guys get? Where’s my brother?” 

It’s hard to remember that the world only exists one way, that people are solid, moving things with current locations and timelines of their own. But Mickey clearly wants him to, had asked him to shift his focus a little, so he does. He’d do anything for Mickey, he’s pretty sure, even when it’s damn near impossible. 

Ian tries to think in logical terms about what’s happening right here. His stomach aches – hunger he doesn’t know how to process – and that helps him focus. Iggy had wanted tacos, Mandy had wanted fish sticks. They’d left to find both. 

Ian licks his lips. “The house, maybe?” He shrugs. “Or Taco Bell.” 

“They went to the store.” A voice that isn’t Ian’s or Mickey’s says this, and the redhead forgets the floating starbursts behind his eyes in favor of figuring out when Carl had gotten here, if he really is, and what that means. He lifts his head and opens his eyes. The world tilts dangerously, changes. 

Mickey glances over at the younger Gallagher (real, at least), and jerks a thumb towards Ian. “You supposed to be watching him?” 

Carl shrugs. Ian grins at his little brother because he loves the kid, he really does. There’s such a gap between the first three and the second three of Frank and Monica’s kids. Mostly it’s just a literal one – years – but sometimes it’s more than that. Something like weight and guilt. Ian’s glad to be on the heavier side, the more painful one. He’d take more from Debbie, Carl, and Liam if he could. Just like he knows Lip would take more from _Ian_ , Debbie, Carl, and Liam if he could. And Fiona would take it all, in a heartbeat, because that’s who she is. Or who this life had made her. Or both. If there’s even a difference at all. 

“Had to take the Browns to the Superbowl.” The couch bounces when Carl’s weight lands on the other side of Ian. “He’s been sitting there giggling at the wall for almost an hour. Was hopin’ you’d get here soon. Was gettin’ bored.” The preteen’s eyes catch suddenly on something a little South of center. “Are you guys holding hands?” 

Mickey tries to tug away – instinct, Ian thinks he’s supposed to know, but the fade is kicking up and he’s not so sure, because a lot of things feel heavier now. Ian doesn’t let go of Mickey’s palm, doesn’t move his thumb. Mickey doesn’t move again, either, after that first jolt, and Ian’s stomach rumbles silently. He’s feeling more now. He thinks he might sneeze soon. 

“Did you smoke any’a that shit?” Mickey’s asking, which is dumb because of course he fucking did, that’s how they’re here, did Mickey forget? 

But then Carl’s shaking his head and Ian’s chest feels tight, because Mickey sounds concerned and a little scared, but it’s not about Ian at all. And even though it’s not, _because_ it’s not, it makes him happy. Other people deserve Mickey’s softness. And Mickey deserves it the most: to expand into the universe that was built for him. 

“Nah, man. We rock-paper-scissored for who would stay sober.” He shrugs and then glares a little, not meaning it entirely. “And Mandy and Ian cheated.” 

Ian doesn’t flashback on any particular memory, there’s not a fixed moment in time that Carl reminds him of with his words; instead it’s like a swell – a large, powerful one that hits quick and then lingers. Nostalgia in twelve dimensions. 

It comes in smells, mostly: fresh cut grass, cheap laundry detergent, and lice shampoo. Those are the strongest, but there are others – six lifetimes worth. Then another. Mickey is lucky number seven. 

Burning charcoal, chlorine, and the chalk of a baseball field. A breeze in the air. Snow falling under a single streetlight, the echo of an abandoned parking lot in the dark. He should be scared but he’s not. 

He wants to fuck Mickey and never stop. He wants to be a part of him, for infinity. Until the universe disappears. 

Ian knows the universe never will. 

That’s when he sneezes.

==================================================

“Hey, what’s _Mickey_ short for?”

He and Ian are at the Gallagher house. It’s been six months since Ian had officially moved in with him, and while living with two of Mickey’s siblings affords them a lot of privacy, compared to the five other people that Ian had grown up with, the redhead still misses the chaos of his childhood home. So, they hang out here a lot. Mickey knows Fiona likes it when they do, that she feels better about Ian living somewhere else – even if that _somewhere_ is only a few blocks away – when she can keep an eye on her kid brother, see for herself that he’s taking his meds and doing okay. 

Today isn’t anything special. It’s Mickey’s day off, and he and Ian had just been hanging out around the house, watching TV and bickering. And since they can do that just as well at the Gallaghers’, they’d decided to come over. Fiona and Carl are the only ones at home. Fiona because she doesn’t have to be at work until later that afternoon, Carl because he got suspended last week and Fiona has him doing chores around the house as her own personal brand of punishment. 

It’s the younger Gallagher who asks the question, and both Ian and Mickey pause at it. 

Fiona’s in the middle of cleaning the living room, but she stops what she’s doing when neither boy responds right away. 

“Y’know, I’ve never thought about that.” She says thoughtfully, turning towards where the couple is sitting on the couch, aimlessly flipping through channels on the television. “What _is_ Mickey short for? Michael?” 

Mickey huffs. “Yeah, right. I look like a fucking _Michael_ to you?”

Ian snorts. “Definitely not.” 

Mickey nudges him. “I ain’t tellin’ y’all my real name, firecrotch.” 

“Wait, _Ian_ doesn’t know?” Carl asks, sounding genuinely surprised. 

Mickey declares, “No, he doesn’t,” in the exact same breath that Ian says, “Of course I do.” 

Fiona and Carl both look amused as fuck, but Mickey barely takes the time to register that before his eyes lock onto his boyfriend. “How the fuck do you know that? Did Mandy tell you?” He growls his annoyance. “Fucking bitch. I _told_ her –”

“Chill out, _Mickey_ ,” Ian interrupts, saying his name with a pointed smirk. “I used to visit you while you were in juvie, remember? They don’t exactly go by nicknames there.” 

“ _Shit_.” He breathes. “I never thought about that.” 

“I like it.” Ian tells him, grinning widely and patting his knee affectionately. “It’s very…Ukrainian.” 

“Oh, an ethnic name, eh?” Fiona sounds more curious than before. “Is it hard to pronounce? Is that why you go by Mickey?” 

“I go by Mickey because mind your own goddamn business, that’s why.” He snaps, feeling his cheeks begin to flush. It’s not that he _hates_ his birth name, exactly; he’s just gone by Mickey for so long that _Mikhalio_ sounds strange on his tongue. Foreign. Which makes sense, he supposes, because it _is_. 

“You know, we call Lip _Lip_ because Ian couldn’t make the _F_ sound until he was, like, six.” Fiona shares, smiling fondly at her brother. 

“Really?” Mickey asks, distracted momentarily, because he hadn’t known that about his boyfriend.

“Fi,” Ian warns, glancing away briefly and looking embarrassed. 

“And it was funny, because he actually started talking really early. Reading, too.” She goes on, reminiscing about Ian’s childhood the way a mother would. “We thought it was gonna be some kind of permanent speech disorder or something. He called Phillip _Lip_ , and since Lip was so young it just kinda stuck. It was the only one, though, thankfully, because I really hated being called _Mona_.” 

“Mona.” Carl chuckles. “That’s a terrible name.” 

“I know.” Fiona deadpans. “But he also called Frank _Rank_ , which was funny mostly because he was _right_.” 

Mickey snorts his amusement, returning Ian’s earlier gesture and patting the redhead’s leg a few times, laughing when Ian huffs and pushes his hand away. 

“How’d we start talking about me?” He gripes. “Let’s talk about how Carl lit a car on fire when he was seven.” 

“Nah, that was just awesome.” The kid chimes in proudly. “What?” He demands when Fiona gives him a look. “Lip said there wasn’t enough gas in the tank to make it explode. Blame him.” 

“I did.” She reminds him. Ian and Mickey both chuckle. 

“It wasn’t funny.” She tells them, though she’s noticeably trying to contain a grin. “He was _seven_ and almost got arrested for _arson_.” 

“But at least he knew how to pronounce _fire_.” Mickey says with mock-innocence. Ian pinches his thigh. 

“Oh, and he used to say _duck_ instead of _fuck_.” Fiona adds, snapping her fingers as she remembers. “Not that I encouraged him to curse when he was that young,” she adds quickly, “but I didn’t hate it that he said _duck Rank_ every time Frank came home loaded.” 

“You were a real menacing kid.” Mickey mocks lightheartedly, and doesn’t even bother swatting at Ian’s hand when the redhead pinches him again. 

“Duck you.” Ian deadpans, which gets a hearty laugh out of all three of them. 

“Debbie’s first word was actually _duck_.” Fiona adds. “She said it in front of a social worker. _That_ woulda gone a lot worse if she’d known the real word.” 

“So, see, I helped,” Ian grins cheekily. 

“Your first-grade teacher wanted to make you see a speech therapist.” Fiona tells Ian, and it’s maybe the first time he’s ever heard this part of the story because he actually looks surprised. 

“Really? I don’t remember that.” 

“That’s because you told her to fuck off.” Fiona shares, shaking her head slowly. “It was the first time you ever said any word that started with an F right, and I was so relieved that I didn’t even mind that I had to track Frank down to go to a parent-teacher meeting at your school.” 

Ian snorts. “I clearly had very strong opinions about learning institutions influencing my speech progression.” 

“You had very strong opinions about telling everyone you met to fuck off.” Fiona corrects. “It only lasted about six months, but for a while there you had a mouth on you worse than Frank. Actually, Frank spent a lot of time with you that year.” 

“That figures.” Ian snorts, shaking his head. 

The rest of the afternoon goes about like that – Fiona telling random stories from Ian’s childhood and Mickey rapt with attention at every single one of them, even when he pretends not to be, because he kind of loves learning this kind of shit about his boyfriend. And, he figures it’s only fair, anyway; Mandy gets a kick out of telling Ian the same kind of stories about Mickey, and it’s become Iggy’s go-to whenever he and Ian are at a loss for small talk. 

The conversation never winds up circling back to Mickey’s real name – much to Mickey’s relief – but later that night Ian brings it back. When they’re alone together, in bed, and Ian’s fucking him long and hard and so satisfyingly _deep_ , with his hands pinned up above his head just the way he likes, the redhead whispers, “ _Mikhalio_ ” in his ear over and over again. 

Mickey doesn’t mind hearing his real name so much after that. At least, not from Ian.

==================================================

“And to think,” Ian smirks, because he loves telling this story, “it all started right here in this house.”

Mickey rolls his eyes, but he kind of loves how much Ian loves telling this story. “You had a crowbar.” He remembers out loud, smiling fondly. 

Ian nods, adding factually, “And you had an erection.”

==================================================

“This,” Ian licks his lips almost nervously, glancing away for a second and then back again, like not looking at Mickey right now isn’t even an option. “Us,” he swallows thickly. “This is us. Right?”

“Yeah.” Mickey agrees, gentle but confused. They’ve said these words to each other so many times by now, so goddamn many, that it doesn’t make sense that Ian seems nervous all of a sudden about them. Still, he adds, “Of course,” and touches Ian’s head, strokes through his hair just like he always does. 

“We’re the endgame.” Ian says, leaning a little into Mickey’s hand. “This, us.” He smiles softly. “Me and you. It’s what I want. Forever.” 

Mickey’s breath hitches sharply. He remembers Ian pressing his thumb into the U tattoo on his ring finger. He’d been so high at the time, so gone, but he’d promised Mickey that he was going to understand more later. 

Ian never breaks his promises.

“What are you saying right now, Ian?” He asks shakily. 

“I’m saying that we’re it.” The redhead takes another deep breath, looking nervous and confident at the same time. “That this is it, Mick. This is us. And I want it. Permanently.” 

“You got it.” Mickey tells him immediately, without any thought because they always do, and maybe that’s all Ian’s looking for. Maybe this isn’t what he thinks it is. 

“I know.” Ian whispers. He takes Mickey’s free hand in his own and brings it up, brushes a kiss against the jut of his knuckles. “But I want everyone else to know, too. I want…I want it legally binding, something no one can argue with, ever, or try to take away.” He laughs quietly, breath coming out faster, eyes shining brightly. “I wanna marry you.” 

Mickey’s heart leaps, lodging somewhere in his throat and cutting off his breath. Everything around them slows to a stop until there’s nothing, anywhere else in the universe, except the two of them. 

“I wanna marry you in front of everyone, Mick.” Ian continues, rushed now, like the words he’s saying have been trapped inside of him for a long time. Like he has to get them out before the rest of the world remembers to breathe. “I want rings, and paperwork, and…fuck, I want _us_. This. Forever.” He bites his lip and squeezes Mickey’s hand tightly. “I want you to say yes. Fuck, Mickey, please say yes.” 

“Yes.” Mickey breathes. He doesn’t know he’s going to say it until it’s already out. There’s no thinking about it, because there doesn’t need to be. It was always going to be yes. 

“Yeah?” Ian’s smile is wide and bright and so goddamn powerful. Mickey wants him to look like that, look at _Mickey_ like that, for the rest of their lives. 

“Fuck, Ian, yes.” He doesn’t recognize his own voice, doesn’t think he’s ever sounded quite like this before. Makes sense, he supposes absently – he’s never felt like this before, either. “ _Yes_.”

==================================================

“Hey, the light in the hallway outside Cody’s room isn’t working.”

Mickey looks up from the game of Candy Crush he’s playing. “So change the bulb.” 

Ian rolls his eyes overdramatically. “I did. It still doesn’t work.” 

Mickey considers this for a moment. “It’s probably something in the wiring. How much do we really need that light?” 

Ian gives him a baleful look. “I almost broke my toe last night when I got up to take a piss.” 

Mickey chuckles. 

Ian throws a waded ball of dirty socks at his head. 

“Fine,” the older man concedes, after retaliating by chucking a nearby stuffed octopus at his husband. “I’ll fix it this weekend.” 

“Or you could do it now?” The redhead says, making it sound like a question even though they both know it’s not. 

“I’m doing this right now.” Mickey waves his phone around, because he’s perfectly content sitting on his ass doing jack shit at the moment, and he’s not about to let Ian nag him into being productive. 

The redhead doesn’t respond beyond sighing deeply and eyeing him pointedly. 

“Fuck you, man, why don’t you fix it?” 

“It’s your turn.” Ian immediately responds. “I fixed the garbage disposal last week.” 

“Like hell you did.” Mickey counters. “I figured out how to do that.” 

“You watched the YouTube video while I had my hand down the drain with razor-sharp blades.” Ian says incredulously. “You don’t get a point for that.” 

Mickey rolls his eyes, but relents. “Fine. What about the water heater I replaced last month? That’s gotta count for two.” 

“No way.” Ian argues. “One. Maybe even half of one, ‘cause Iggy _and_ Jimmy helped.” 

“Jimmy managed to give himself a concussion five minutes in.” Mickey reminds him. “I get at least a full point for dealing with that.” 

“Okay,” Ian agrees after a brief moment of consideration. “But _I_ did fix the disposal, so it’s still your turn.” 

Mickey grunts and tries to think of another menial household task he’s done recently. “I put together that shelf thing that Mandy bought for Cody two days ago.” He says triumphantly when he remembers. Fuck, his hand still aches from having to use that stupid allen wrench so many times. 

“No way.” Ian exclaims. “Cody things don’t count, remember?” 

“Cody _school_ things don’t count.” Mickey reminds him. “You counted it when you had to put together his bike last summer.” 

“I also helped Fiona set up the pool that week and never got credit for that,” Ian’s face lights up. “So technically, you owe me one.” 

“Shit at your sister’s house _definitely_ doesn’t count.” 

Ian huffs but doesn’t try to argue. He crosses his arms and looks sullen. Mickey goes back to playing Candy Crush, smiling victoriously. 

Three hours later neither Mickey nor Ian has made a single effort to fix the light in the hallway, and Mickey’s just starting to wonder how long Ian will try to put off doing it when Mandy gets home from work, kicking off her shoes by the front door. Ian glances over at her briefly, his face lighting up. 

“Hey, Mands,” he says, pitching his voice just hair _too_ innocently. “Mickey says he’s going to fix that light in the hallway because if you tried to do it you’d wind up electrocuting yourself.” 

Mickey’s pissed for a second, turning on his husband with a furious expression. Ian just smiles at him slyly and winks, jutting his chin in Mandy’s direction. Mickey turns, and sees the hard look of stubborn resolve that’s settled on his sister’s face at being told she couldn’t do something. 

They both have to spend an hour listening to her rant about how wrong they are about her ability to do shit, and how inept they both are at basic household maintenance, and how she knows Ian’s taunt had been a trick in the first place – _“you aren’t that slick, asshole.”_ – but she doesn’t trust them to not light the damn house on fire, anyway so of _course_ she’ll do it; but all of that is a small price to pay for getting to sit on the floor in the hallway reading how-to articles out loud while Mandy stands on a ladder and pokes around the light fixture until it’s not broken anymore. 

Never let it be said that Mickey’s not a fan of teamwork.

==================================================

When he finally meets Monica Gallagher, the first thing that strikes Mickey as odd is the way she looks.

Having never seen a photo of her, or heard her described with any physical attributes, Mickey had concocted a picture in his head that turns out to be radically incorrect. He’d been imagining his boyfriend’s mother as tall, rail-thin, and redheaded. A cross between an aging stripper and a strung-out heroin addict, with greasy, stringy hair just a shade darker than Ian’s. He doesn’t know where exactly this image had come from, just that he’s had it for as long as he can remember and has never had any reason to consider that it might be wrong. 

Which is why he’s so confused when he comes home late one afternoon to find a short, curvy, blonde woman holding his nephew. 

“Who the fuck are you?” He asks as soon as he processes the scene. It’s not actually the question he means to ask, just the first one that comes out. Because it hardly matters, in that moment, who this woman _is_. Only that she’s _not_ someone Mickey knows and is holding Cody. 

“Oh, you must be Mickey,” the woman gushes, turning towards him with absolutely no fear, even though Mickey’s pretty sure the expression on his face clearly reads _one wrong move and I’ll cut your fucking throat out, bitch._

“Yeah, I must be,” he deadpans. “Why don’t you set the fucking baby down before I cut your fucking throat out, bitch.” 

Because sometimes menacing expressions just aren’t enough. 

The woman chuckles fondly at the threat. “Well, aren’t you just a big protective papa bear?” She bounces Cody on her hip and coos at him, “Isn’t he, baby? Isn’t he a big protective papa bear?” Cody’s response is a weary set of squinting eyes. 

“Who the fuck –”

“Mick.” Ian’s voice cuts him off, and Mickey glances over at his boyfriend immediately. He’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, face drawn tight with almost painfully apparent exhausted. Mickey doesn’t quite understand that, because he’s only been out of the house for a few hours, and Ian had been perfectly chipper and energetic when he’d left. The redhead’s next words, however, explain the mood shift. “This is Monica. My mother.” 

Silence settles heavy between them, and only Monica herself seems unaware of the sudden tension in the room. After a few beats, wherein he absolutely refuses to meet Mickey’s gaze, Ian walks over to Monica and their nephew. Gently, but with a firmness Mickey appreciates, Ian takes the baby out of the older woman’s arms. “I told you not to pick him up,” he mutters. 

Cody, only a year and a half old, is smart enough to look relieved at being back in Ian’s arms. 

“What, am I not allowed to hold my own grandson?” Monica asks, hands planted firmly on her hips. 

“Babies are fragile.” Ian says softly. It’s something he says to Liam all the time, to remind him to always play gently with Cody, no matter how excited he gets. 

In response to this, Monica rolls her eyes – not unlike a petulant teenager might. “I know how to hold babies, Ian, I raised six of them.” 

“No, Fiona did that.” The redhead’s words are sharp and loud, a startling contrast to how he’d sounded only a second before. Cody whines, abruptly teetering on the edge of a crying fit. 

“Ian, baby,” Monica’s whole demeanor softens in an instant, “You know how much I wish I could have been there for you when you were growing up, don’t you? I feel like…I feel like I missed out on almost everything, and I know that’s all my fault.” She pauses there, nearly as close to tears as Cody. 

Kev had told him once, a couple years back, that Monica Gallagher had this way of being, this _sincerity_ about her that never felt faked. Mickey hadn’t bought it, at the time – had been sure, based on stories alone, that Monica was as much of a con artist as Frank – but now he gets it. 

Because she’s not a con artist. Or, maybe she is, in a way, but she’s the best one to have ever lived because she truly believes what she’s selling. Her heartache is as palpable and real as Ian’s pain and Mickey’s anger. 

In an instant he’s across the room and at Ian’s side. 

For as long as he can remember, since they first got together, Mickey’s been protective of Ian. It’s always been an instinct – have Ian’s back, jump into the middle of any fight, knock down anybody trying to hurt him, that boy is _his_ , dammit, and you’re not allowed to fuck with him – but he’s never, not in all his years of fighting, protecting, or loving, felt as terrified for Ian as he does right now. 

Ian doesn’t need Mickey to protect him most of the time, is the thing – the guy’s physically intimidating and inherently ballsy. Even when Ian does need it, like with that douchebag he’d lived with in New York, he acts like he doesn’t. _“I can take care of myself, Mick. It wasn’t that bad.”_

Monica is different. 

Mickey’s been in a room with her for all of two minutes and he can already tell that Monica’s so incredibly different. And it makes his stomach drop right the fuck out from under him because _this is how he loses Ian_. Not because Ian would ever actively choose his mom over Mickey or his family, but because Ian is _defenseless_ when it comes to this woman. 

Mickey’s hand is shaking when he places it on the small of Ian’s back. “What’s she doing here, firecrotch?” 

Ian hitches Cody a little higher up on his hip, pivoting his body in Mickey’s direction. It’s barely a fraction of a difference, and Ian’s probably not even aware of the fact that he’d done it, but Mickey counts it as a point in his favor. He and Ian are a team. 

He’s no less terrified, but he feels marginally more prepared to fight for what’s his. 

Monica answers his question before Ian gets a chance. “My daughter got married. My son had a baby. I wanted to visit my _family_ , Mickey. Is that so wrong?” 

“The last time you _visited your family_ ,” Mickey snarls at her, “Ian wound up living with an abusive _shitbag_.”

Monica turns to her son with a slight frown, “You were sleeping with Nathan?” 

“Un-fucking-believable,” Mickey’s shaking his head, because it really just is, “you didn’t even have to fucking _ask_ who I was talking about.” 

“Mick –” Ian tries, but the older man isn’t listening. 

“You’re a piece of shit,” Mickey tells his boyfriend’s mother, as cold and brutal as he’d be if he were talking to Terry, “and the only good thing you’ve ever done for your _family_ ,” he spits the word sarcastically, “is stay the fuck away from them.” 

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Monica says simply, looking way less affected by his words than Mickey would have liked, “but I came here to talk to my son, and if you don’t mind –”

“I do fucking mind.” Mickey interrupts viciously. He won’t lose Ian to this woman. Not again.

“Mickey.” Ian says sharply, pulling the older man’s focus abruptly. When he looks at him, the redhead’s eyes are swimming with pain. “She’s my _mom_.” 

“She’s a piece of shit.” Mickey reiterates. Then, just a little bit gentler, because this is a precarious situation, “C’mon, man, you know –”

“He doesn’t _know_ anything, except the lies all of you have been feeding him.” Monica interrupts. “Drugged up and hollow.” She scoffs. “It’s no way to live. Not for people like us.” 

“Like you?” Mickey demands. “Ian’s _nothing_ like you.”

“He was,” Monica bites back. “When he was with me, he was free. You haven’t done anything but trap him here. Made him into someone he’s not.” 

“That’s not true.” Ian says. One of his hands is cupping the back of Cody’s head, trying to soothe the approaching tantrum, and Mickey gets distracted by that for a second; by the way Ian’s palm spans almost the entirety of Cody’s skull. 

Monica had held Ian just like that when _he’d_ been a defenseless, dependent baby. And then she’d left. She’d left her child, all of her children, alone in the world to fend for themselves. Maybe that’s why Ian and the others always let her back into their lives. It should have made them more resistant, should have made them hate her, but moms are tricky, _different_ than anyone else. Maybe the Gallagher kids are all weak against her because they’re all just stuck, somehow, in the same place they’d been when she’d first abandoned them: reliant and powerless. 

“Yes, it is, baby,” Monica implores, taking a step closer to Ian and putting her own hand over her heart for emphasis. “You could be…you could be so much _more_ than this life. You could be _free_ –”

“What Mickey and I have makes me free.” Ian interjects. His words are blunt, angry almost in the wake of Monica’s pleading, but they make Mickey’s breath stutter regardless. “Not the way you and me lived. There’s nothing _freeing_ about running around out of my mind, thinking aliens are trying to abduct me, getting high, not sleeping for days, letting guys…fucking people for bail money, and then crashing down from the mania so hard that I wanna fucking _die_. That I slit my wrists in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner.” 

“ _What_?” Mickey demands, heart leaping into his throat for a whole different reason this time. 

He’d know if Ian had ever tried to kill himself. He’d fucking _know_ that. He’d know…

“I wish you hadn’t seen that,” Monica is sighing heavily, and that’s when it clicks. 

_“…the other side of mania is…well, you know.”_

_“Thanksgiving.”_ Carl had finished the thought. That had been right after Ian had first come back from New York, when Carl had been asking all those questions about Ian’s meds. Mickey had been curious, at the time, about what the two Gallaghers had been alluding to, but he’d never asked. _Why_ hadn’t he ever asked? 

“You slit your fucking wrists?” Mickey knows anger isn’t an appropriate response, knows that he should be sympathetic and understanding about the realities of bipolar and the depression that sometimes comes with it, but he’s _not_. If it were Ian, he would be. If it were anyone else in the world he probably would be, but Monica _chooses_ to stay unmedicated. She takes that risk, every damn day, and she drags her family down with her whenever she’s around. 

If Mickey were a better person he’d be compassionate. But he’s not a better person, and it’s not his job to make Monica feel better about herself. He’s furious, and he’s not about to hide that. 

“Mickey…” Ian tries, because he can clearly see where the older man is headed, but Mickey’s already gone. 

Cody whimpers loudly, looking between his uncles with big, blue eyes – innocent eyes, that shouldn’t be anywhere near Monica Gallagher. 

“You slit your fucking wrists in front of your _kids_?” His voice is low, almost a whisper but not quite, harsher than that. He sounds like Colin used to whenever he was trying to scare Terry. 

“I was sick.” She crosses her arms, looking to Ian for support. The redhead opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Cody’s tiny fingers cling to the front of his t-shirt. 

“You _choose_ that.” Mickey cuts her off swiftly. “You could get help, but you don’t. And then you do shit like _that_.” He huffs an angry, impatient breath. “How old were they, huh? How old was Ian? How old was _Liam_? Did he see it? You think he’s gonna remember? You think that fucked them up?” Mickey snorts bitterly. “You want Ian off his meds ‘cause you think that kinda shit is _better_? Makes him _free_?” He shakes his head, completely at a loss. “You’re a piece of _fucking shit_.” 

“Mickey, _stop_.” Ian says harshly. His jaw is clenched tight when the older man looks at him, stress evident. 

“How old were you?” He demands, because he’s not ready to stop yet, not able to. 

“Sixteen.” Ian swallows thickly and glances at the ceiling. “Liam was too young to remember.” 

“But you weren’t.” Mickey points out, though of course Ian and Monica both already know that. 

He tries to figure it out – where he would have been when that happened. Ian had never told him about it, but Mickey thinks, even back then, he would have noticed the fallout from something like _that_. The Thanksgiving Ian had been sixteen…Mickey must have been in juvie. He remembers it now, sort of. Remembers some of the guys getting cards from their families. Remembers feeling almost glad that he’d been stuck behind bars at the time, because Terry always had a tendency to get mean around the holidays. 

It had been the following summer before he’d gotten out again, and Ian had visited him a few times during that year he’d been locked up, but not often, and not even once in November or December. He remembers admitting to himself that it might have been nice if he had. Remembers missing Ian, _letting_ himself miss Ian, while he’d been in juvie that second time. 

That he hadn’t been there for Ian after he’d witnessed Monica’s suicide attempt, that he might not have even _wanted_ to be a part of something like that back then, pisses him off. That anger he has for himself for himself, for that scared kid he used to be, just adds to it; the rage he’s feeling right now. 

“Carl and Debbie, they weren’t too young to remember. And Fiona and Lip, they sure as fuck weren’t.” Mickey continues, taking a step closer to Monica. All of a sudden, and completely by Mickey’s own doing, this isn’t about protecting Ian anymore. It’s about hurting Monica. He doesn’t realize until afterwards what a bad move that is. “You know what happened when you and Ian split? _They_ were the ones who got fucked by that. They spent however the fuck long thinking their brother was dead, or as good as, and that they couldn’t do a damn thing to help. And that was on _you_. Because all they knew about bipolar was what _you_ showed them. And I thought it was fucked up, I really did, that they just _assumed_ Ian would do the same shit that you did, but, y’know what? I was _wrong_. ‘Cause watching your own fucking mother slit her goddamn wrists on Thanksgiving day…well, that’s gonna fuck anyone up, isn’t it?” 

Monica looks close to tears, clearly _finally_ affected by Mickey’s words, and he feels triumphant for a moment, damn near proud of himself for the pain he’s managed to cause, because Monica fucking _deserves_ every last bit of it, but then Ian makes a noise. A throaty, raw kind of sound that cuts right through Mickey’s rage like ice on a flame. 

When he turns back towards him, the redhead’s expression is drawn so tight, and his skin is so pale, that Mickey might have thought he was sick if he didn’t know any better. “Ian…” He starts. Just like _that_ all of his anger is gone, and in its place all there is, all he can feel, is dread.

He fucked up. He fucked this up so fucking _bad_. 

“Here.” Ian says tightly, and moves just close enough to Mickey to pass Cody to him. He doesn’t let their skin touch more than strictly necessary, and he won’t meet Mickey’s eyes. 

“Fuck.” Mickey breathes. He takes the kid because he has to, because Cody isn’t part of this and has to be the first priority, always. But as soon as Mickey’s got him, as soon as he’s safe, the redhead steps back. “Ian.” He tries again. “Ian, babe…” 

Mickey almost never uses terms of endearment. Ian does sometimes – most often when they’re fucking, but there are other moments, too – and it always makes the brunette’s skin flush in the most amazing way, but Mickey can hardly ever bring himself to return the gesture, even though he knows Ian likes it. He does now, though – not in an effort to coerce, but because he knows how bad he’d just fucked up, and he needs Ian to hear that he’ll do anything to fix it. 

But the pleading has no effect whatsoever. Ian barely even glances in his direction as he walks past him, past Monica, and heads for the front door. 

“Hey, don’t walk out, man.” Mickey attempts, voice coming out in a desperate plea. Because it’s something they try to never do – leave right in the middle of a fight. They’ve learned the hard way that it almost always makes shit worse. But then, this doesn’t really count. This hadn’t been an argument, not between Mickey and Ian, anyway. This had just been Mickey saying a lot of shit to try and hurt his boyfriend’s mom, because he’d been so pissed off that he hadn’t thought about what any of those words would have sounded like to Ian himself. “I’m sorry, Ian. Fuck, I didn’t mean –”

“But you did mean it.” Ian interrupts him curtly, grabbing his jacket from the hook by the door. “So maybe it’s better if I don’t stick around to hear the rest of it, alright?” 

It’s not alright, but Ian’s closing the door behind him before Mickey gets a chance to tell him that. 

Cody starts crying in earnest then. Maybe he senses the tension in the room. Maybe he just misses Ian. Fuck knows Mickey can relate to him, either way.

Monica’s shaking her head when Mickey looks back at her. 

“What?” He demands. He’s still pissed at her. He blames her for this, for all of it, because Mickey might have fucked up, but Monica being here had started this whole shit train in motion in the first place. 

_“Hurricane Monica.”_ He’s heard Fiona say that a few times. Lip, too. He never understood it, not really. He does now. 

Monica cocks an eyebrow at him, and Mickey gets the feeling that she thinks she’s won somehow. “And _I’m_ a piece of shit?” 

***

He doesn’t hear from Ian for almost twelve hours. 

When Mandy gets home from work, Mickey passes Cody off to her and locks himself in his bedroom. He knows he should probably talk to her – warn her that Monica’s in town, at the very least – but he can’t bring himself to say anything to anyone. 

He feels like shit. He feels like absolute fucking _shit_ , and useless to boot, because what had that even accomplished, anyway? Monica knows that Mickey thinks she’s a selfish bitch, but how important had that really been? Ian wasn’t going to go with her – he’d said as fucking much – but Mickey just _had_ to keep going. Had to run his big fucking mouth until he’d put every single goddamn thought he’s ever fucking had on the table. 

And, _fuck_ , he doesn’t even know which part had caused Ian to leave. That Mickey had shit so hard on Monica? Issues or not, she’s still Ian’s _mom_ , and maybe he’d gone too far. Or had it been what he’d said about her being bipolar? About them leaving town together? Ian knows that Mickey doesn’t blame him for leaving, for living with Nathan, for the manic episodes he’d had in New York. He _knows_ that. Or, he _had_ known it, anyway. What if Mickey had thrown all of that into question? He hadn’t fucking meant to do _that_. He’d only wanted to hurt Monica. Which he had. But, at what cost? 

Years later, Mickey will flashback on how he’s feeling right now in the middle of an entirely different conversation. He and Ian will be talking about Lip, about how much Mickey hates the guy, and Mickey will remember this feeling that’s eating him alive right now. This feeling of _did I lose him? Was that much hate too much for him to handle?_ And he’ll make a decision in that moment that’ll be based entirely on this one. Hating someone else, even someone who deserves it, isn’t worth losing Ian over. He’ll forgive his hatred for Lip, when the time comes, because hating Monica had left him feeling like _this_ ; like maybe Ian won’t come back. And nothing is worth that. It’s a lesson he learns well and keeps, but that only comes later. Right now, all there is is fear. 

Midnight comes and goes and Ian still isn’t home. Mickey calls him, Ian doesn’t answer, Mickey leaves a voicemail. He repeats that process over and over again throughout the night. 

_“I’m sorry, Ian, Look, I just fucking…I didn’t mean it about you, okay? Just come home.”_

_“I fucking love you, you goddamn moron. You know I don’t blame you for any of that shit, right? ‘Cause that ain’t on you. I’m sorry I said it. Just…get back here.”_

_“Cody won’t stop crying. This isn’t just about us anymore, man, you know that.”_

_“Look, if you’re with Monica…just, be careful, okay?”_

_“I called Fiona. She says you ain’t there and that she hasn’t seen your mom, either. She’s more fucking stressed out than I am and that’s really fucking saying something. Monica…I mean, she isn’t dangerous, right? Just…fucking call me.”_

_“I mean it, firecrotch. Call me. Be pissed if you want, but don’t…I’m fucking worried, okay?”_

_“Fuck you, man, this isn’t cool.”_

_“Carl tracked Frank down. That’s how worried they are that you up and vanished with her, alright? He’s asking Frank for help. You get what’s going on over here now?”_

_“You’re scaring me, Ian. Call me.”_

And on and on and on. Midnight turns into one, two, three in the morning…Mickey’s pacing and chain smoking. He goes out, laps the city, asks anyone he finds if they’ve seen any wayward Gallaghers roaming about…needless to say, he comes up empty. 

He thinks about waking Mandy up, telling her what’s going on, but decides that, until morning at least, she’s better off without the stress. She wouldn’t be able to do anything, anyway, and Mickey’s first priority, always, is to protect Cody. And sometimes that means making sure Mandy stays out of the crosshairs of the drama. 

Around five in the morning he finally dozes off. He doesn’t mean to, sure as fuck doesn’t want to, but biology wins and his body succumbs to a fitful catnap, propped up against the headboard still fully dressed. He dreams that his phone rings, that Ian’s on the other end of the line, that he tells Mickey everything is okay, that he loves him, and he’ll be home soon. He dreams it so many times that when the phone finally rings for real, he sleeps through it. 

His eyes snap open when he hears his voicemail alert ding, instantly wide awake, and scrambling to get to the device on his bedside table. 

The clock on the screen reads 5:49am. 

_“Hey it’s me,”_ Ian’s voice sounds rough on the recording, tired and defeated. _“I’m sorry I ignored your calls. Fiona and Carl and Debbie blew up my phone, too. I’m a fucking asshole. I just…fuck. I’ll explain later. Right now, I need…shit, I need your help. Can you…can you come down to the police station? And bring three hundred dollars? I only have fifty on me. It’s for bail. But, you probably coulda guessed that. Shit. Fuck. I’m sorry. I just…yeah. If you get this. Please, Mick.”_

***

Mickey had gotten it from Terry; his inherent distrust of banks. 

Ian had learned it from Fiona. Though, in her case, it had always been less about trust and more about self-preservation. If people know where your money is, they might be able to take it if they’re owed it; but bill collectors can’t put a lean on a coffee can full of cash. 

It had been V who had convinced Mickey that keeping all of his money hidden in various places throughout his house was _fucking stupid_. When he’d first started working at The Alibi, she’d insisted that he open a bank account, and after weeks of nagging, and a lecture from Mandy of all the people, Mickey had eventually caved. 

Then when Ian had moved in with him and began working, when they’d started sharing a life together, it had only made sense that they shared their money, too. Neither of them had ever considered the possibility of keeping their incomes separate. 

_“We live in the same house,”_ Ian had explained their reasoning to Fiona, when the topic had somehow come up between the three of them one afternoon, _“all our cash goes towards the same shit. What’s the point in having two separate bank accounts?”_

_“To maintain your independence?”_ Fiona had suggested, reacting like she thought the idea of a shared bank account was the craziest thing she’d ever heard. “Fuck, guys, do you even realize what a big commitment that is? Because it’s huge. Married people don’t even always share their money like that. Why don’t you just get married, if this is just about proving your loyalty to each other or whatever.”

Fiona might have some serious issues when it comes to trust and financial security (who can blame her, really, given the way she’s been living for most of her life?), but Ian doesn’t seem to have absorbed any of them. Or maybe he just trusts Mickey so much that it’s never been an issue. 

***

Stopping at the ATM only takes a few minutes – Mickey had picked a bank based entirely on its proximity to his house and work – and it’s only a quarter after six when he pushes through the front doors of the police station. 

Being in that station immediately puts him on edge. He instinctively pats himself down, making sure he doesn’t have any drugs or weapons on him – he doesn’t, of course. He doesn’t do shit like that anymore. But he’s been a criminal for a lot longer than he _hasn’t_ , and some things are just hardwired. 

“Mickey.” Ian’s sitting on a bench in the waiting area, as close to the front door – and as far away from the cops – as he can get and still be inside the building. 

Mickey doubletakes. “Ian?” He turns back towards his boyfriend. The younger man is wearing the same clothes he’d left the house in earlier, but they’re dirtier than they had been, and ruffled like he’d slept in them. There’s a scrape on his chin that’s caked with dried blood, and he’s got a bruise forming around his left eye. “The fuck happened to you?” 

His fingers itch to reach out and touch the other man, but he holds back. He doesn’t like PDAs in general, but in a police station he just _can’t_. When he’s in a place like this, he has to protect himself – more importantly, he has to protect Ian – and he does that by not giving anyone else in this room, the cops, anything they might be able to use against them. Maybe that’s making unfair assumptions, or whatever, but he’s not willing to take the risk. 

“Got in a fight.” Ian shrugs. He doesn’t stand up. Barely even _sits_ up, just hunches his shoulders around himself and keeps his elbows resting on his knees, trying to make himself as small and unassuming as possible. Mickey gets it; this is how _Ian’s_ learned to defend himself. 

“Thought I was here to bail you out.” Mickey says. Because he had, and he’s confused. 

“Not me.” The redhead says simply.

Mickey’s jaw clenches, but he bites back his initial swell of anger. He won’t make the same mistake twice in a row. He’s not _that_ stupid. “Monica?” He says it level, completely unaffected. 

Ian must be able to tell that he’s holding back, though, because he smiles this half-crooked little thing that winds up looking more like a grimace. “Nah,” he shakes his head. “Not her, either. Lip.” 

***

The short version of the story is that after Ian had stormed out, he’d gone to a bar on the other side of town. He hadn’t been looking for Lip, but had found him, anyway. The older Gallagher had already been three sheets to the wind – he’s been on and off the sobriety thing for over a year now, and last night he had clearly been one of the _off_ days – and Ian had joined him in his self-pity party. 

Since it only takes a single beer to get Ian loaded while he’s on his meds, it hadn’t been long before both Gallaghers were wasted. They were both pissed and moody, too. Ian about Monica’s sudden reappearance in his life and what Mickey had said, and Lip about some girl he’s been fucking. Mickey wouldn’t actually give a shit about the details of that, expect that it was that girl’s ex-boyfriend who had started the fight. He’d been looking for Lip, Ian tells him after it’s all said and done, and when he’d found him in that bar with Ian, every single ounce of shit had hit the fan. And even though it had all been Lip’s shit, Ian had wound up covered in it, too.

Mickey understands Ian’s inherent need to defend his brother in a fight – especially one that comes out of nowhere like this one clearly had – but he’s still pissed at Lip for dragging Ian into it. It’s like the guy doesn’t _get_ that Ian has more important things going on in his life now, and that bar fights that end with police involvement and aggravated assault charges just don’t track with raising a kid ( _Lip’s_ kid, thank you very much), and managing a serious mental illness. 

And who would have ever thought that Mickey would wind up the rational voice in a debate about violent outbursts? 

Lip crashes out on their couch as soon as they get back. He doesn’t want to go home to Fiona in the state he’s in, and Mickey’s honestly too tired, too guilty, and too relieved at having Ian back to argue. 

“I’m sorry.” Ian says, as soon as they’re alone together in their bedroom. “I’m so fucking sorry, Mick, I shouldn’t’ve left like that. Monica, she just…” 

“Ay, it’s alright.” Mickey shushes him, crowding up into his space, absently amazed that he’s still allowed to be there. “You left ‘cause I was a dick. We’ll call it even.” 

Ian snorts, and puts his hands on Mickey’s waist. “I feel like everything’s falling apart.” He whispers, letting his head drop onto Mickey’s shoulder. 

“It’s not.” The brunette tells him firmly, running one hand through his boyfriend’s hair while the other rubs soothingly up and down his spine. He _hates_ seeing Ian like this. 

“Lip told the cops I wasn’t part of the fight.” Ian’s words get jumbled against the fabric of his t-shirt, but Mickey manages to make them out. “That’s the only reason they didn’t arrest me, too.” 

“Okay.” He says simply. He wants to tell Ian that fuck-face doesn’t get a gold star for protecting Ian from the cops – not when he’d pulled him into the drunken brawl in the first place – but the redhead doesn’t need to hear that right now. “Good.” 

“I fucked up.” Ian says after a beat, clinging even tighter to Mickey, his fingers painting bruises into the shorter man’s skin. Mickey isn’t about to complain about it. 

“Hey, it’s okay.” He says again. He moves his shoulder slightly, nudges at Ian until the other man lifts his head up, meets Mickey’s eyes. He sees so much pain and heartache and _fear_ in those deep green orbs that his chest constricts painfully. “It’s gonna be okay.” 

“God, why do I feel like this?” Ian asks him, openly pleading and genuinely seeking out some kind of answer. “I hate…I hate this, Mick. I hate…” 

Mickey bites his bottom lip hard. He knows exactly why Ian feels like his entire world is spinning out of control, but he’s scared to say it. Terrified, because he can’t lose Ian, and Ian’s defenseless, so fucking defenseless, when it comes to his mother. It makes Mickey hurt for him. 

“We’re gonna be alright, Ian.” He repeats the only words he can, leaning forward slightly and pressing their lips together. “I promise.” 

And it must be enough to calm the storm raging inside of him, because Ian accepts the declaration and doesn’t ask for more. 

They lay down together, Mickey wrapping himself around the taller man while Ian seeks comfort in his embrace, burrowing his head in the crevice of Mickey’s neck and breathing deeply. “I love you.” He ghosts the words against Mickey’s skin. “I love you.” He kisses the curve of his jaw. “I love you. I love you so much.” 

“Shh,” Mickey puts his hand on the back of Ian’s skull, holds him there firmly until the redhead stops shaking. “I love you, too. Nothing changes that. Ever. Now, go to sleep.” 

It doesn’t take long for Ian to do exactly that. And eventually, Mickey does, too. 

***

They sleep for so long that it’s nighttime again when they wake up. Mickey doesn’t like that – doesn’t like missing the sun altogether. It reminds him of being in prison. He tries his best to shake that feeling away, though, because there’s not much he can do about it now. 

He and Ian don’t talk as they crawl out of bed. Mickey gets his hand on the redhead’s chin, forces the younger man to meet his eyes because he has to make sure he’s okay. Ian’s expression is drawn, but he looks more alert than he had last night. Mickey decides that it’s good enough for now and kisses him twice before they make their way into the bathroom. 

Besides the scrape on his chin and the black eye, there are several bruises on Ian’s torso, including one right over his gunshot scar that Mickey spends full minutes running his fingers over while they wait for the shower to get warm. 

“I’m fine.” Ian assures him. They’re the first words either of them have spoken since they woke up. 

“I know.” Mickey says simply. That doesn’t stop him from soaping up a washcloth and running it up and over every inch of Ian’s body once they’re under the spray of water. Ian lets him do it without complaining, which really says more than words could about how guilty he still feels. 

Once they’re dry and dressed they make their way into the living room. Lip is sitting up on the couch, clearly barely awake, with his phone in his hand. The guy looks like hell – bruises up and down both his arms, one eye half-swollen shut, and a deep cut on the bridge of his nose – and Mickey’s glad that he seems to have taken the brunt of the beating, at least. 

“Frank and Monica renewed their wedding vows,” the older Gallagher informs them, voice caught somewhere between hungover and incredulous. “They’re having a party at the house. Fiona wants us to come over.” 

“Why?” Mickey asks. He thinks he should be more surprised than he is about Ian’s brother’s announcement, but he’s long since learned that shit like this is just par for the course with the Gallaghers. And if he ever thought _Frank_ was a chaotic mess, well, he’d take him a thousand times over in lieu of Monica. He can’t even imagine what those two are like together. 

“Because Monica wants us to and she won’t shut up about it I guess?” Lip shrugs. Ian had told his brother last night that she was back in town, but Mickey gets the feeling that this would have been his reaction even if he hadn’t already known. Monica might not show up often, but when she does it’s apparently always like this: a giant shit show from start to finish. 

Mickey doesn’t want to go. Doesn’t want to subject Ian to his mother’s _bullshit_ again. But Ian just mumbles something about “it’s family” and is ready to walk right back into the lion’s den with or without Mickey by his side. 

So Mickey, of course, chooses to stay at his side. 

And, some sixteen hours later, when they wake up in the Gallagher living room after getting straight up _drugged_ by the crazy bitch who had birthed and abandoned a family of six, Mickey can’t say he’s particularly sad to find out that Monica is dead.

==================================================

Cody pulls the wrapper off his popsicle and, as always, immediately reads the question at the end of the stick. “What can you steal and not get in trouble?”

“A lot of things if you’re good at it.” Mickey responds instantly, earning him a half-hearted glare from Ian and an elbow in the ribs from Mandy. 

“I know this one.” Ian says simply, when Cody glances at him.

“Something you already own?” Mandy guesses, shrugging at her son. “What do you think, buddy?” 

Cody considers it seriously as he licks the frozen purple treat. He doesn’t just say the first thing that pops into his head, he mulls over all the possibilities that occur to him and weighs the likelihood of each being right. Ian knows that’s what he’s doing, because he makes the same face when he’s trying to solve something that Lip does. 

The popsicle is half gone when Cody finally decides, “I think…I think the only thing you can steal and not get in trouble, is someone’s heart.” 

The writing on the other end of the popsicle stick reads _second base_ , but Cody’s answer leaves all three of them stunned into such an awed silence that they barely even hear the little boy’s disappointed voice when he says it.

==================================================

Mickey’s straddling Ian’s waist, using his arms to lever himself just close enough to press teasing kisses against the redhead’s lips, but doing his best to keep the rest of his body out of reach. Ian’s hands are firm on his hips, but he’s not pulling Mickey down, not fighting the slow, almost gentle pace the older man has set for them.

It’s not often that Mickey demands control like this, but whenever he does, Ian lets him have it for as long as he wants. They both know what the other likes by now, in terms of fucking, but being familiar with each other doesn’t mean that nothing ever changes, that their sex life is routine or dull. 

Tonight, Mickey has something very specific in mind, and he’s nervous, about bringing it up with Ian, because it’s not exactly in his comfort zone. Having the younger man underneath him like this, pinned and eager, makes it easier. 

Over time, Mickey’s learned that if he kisses Ian for long enough – just kissing, without letting it lead anywhere else – Ian will eventually get desperate enough to agree to pretty much anything. It’s a weapon he reserves for when he wants something but doesn’t know how Ian will respond. 

Mickey’s not sure how long they’ve been at it by the time he finally pulls back a little, but Ian’s lips are red and swollen, and his eyes are glazed. His fingers flex hard on Mickey’s hips, probably without conscious intent on the redhead’s part, and his mouth is open slightly, almost panting from Mickey’s continued efforts to drive him crazy. 

“Hi,” Ian croaks, smiling dopily, when Mickey just continues to stare at him without moving. 

He can’t help it that he grins back. “Hey.” 

Ian bites his bottom lip and cocks his head to the side ever so slightly. “Gonna keep kissing me?” 

Mickey smirks. “You want me to?” 

The redhead trails one of his hands from Mickey’s waist down to his thigh, settling it right in the middle, far enough away from his cock that Mickey knows he’s not asking for anything. He flexes his fingers into the hard muscle there because Ian’s got a thing about his legs, his thighs especially, and sometimes he just likes touching them, even when they’re not together in bed like this. Mickey’s long since gotten used to his boyfriend’s infatuation with random parts of his body. 

“Yeah.” Ian breathes, in response to Mickey’s teasing question, so of course he does. 

He leans down again and brushes their lips together, barely letting his tongue dart in for a taste before he’s pulling back. Ian groans a little, and Mickey smiles, wider this time. There’s something immensely satisfying about making Ian sound like that. 

He presses a series of short, chaste kisses against the column of his throat, and then moves over, paying more attention to the younger man’s bare shoulder, sucking a deep bruise into the soft, freckled flesh. 

Ian’s shirtless, his bottom half covered only by the thin, loose fabric of his gym shorts – which is doing nothing, at this point, to hide the straining erection he’s got underneath. The redhead had been about to go out for a jog when Mickey had jumped on him earlier, pinning him to the bed and demanding his attention. Ian, unsurprisingly, hadn’t fought him. 

Mickey pulls back when Ian’s hips start rolling underneath him, pressing his palm flat against his boyfriend’s chest and thumbing at the mark he’d just made on his shoulder. He feels a kind of possessive pride when he sees how dark it is already, and moves back in to create a matching one a few inches higher, something Ian won’t be able to hide under his clothes. 

As a general rule, Mickey’s not a big fan of PDA. Even now that almost everyone knows that they’re a couple – that Mickey’s a big fucking queer and not ashamed of it – he doesn’t like putting himself, or Ian, on display like that. And maybe some of it is not wanting to draw attention – he can handle himself in a fight, without doubt, and would come out swinging at anyone stupid enough to insult him because of who he fucks. And he has before, too, enough times that people have wised up and pretty much leave him alone about it. 

No, Mickey’s not afraid of beating the ignorant out of people. It’s more about privacy. Mickey’s different when he and Ian are alone together, and he doesn’t want other people seeing that. He doesn’t mind so much when it’s just their family, but he’s never going to be a stop-in-the-street-to-make-out kind of guy (except for that one time when he’d done exactly that but, hey, extenuating circumstances). He feels guilty about it sometimes, because Ian very much is the out-and-proud type, and though he never pushes Mickey for more on that front, the brunette can tell that he gets disappointed sometimes. 

To make up for, Mickey likes to leave marks on the redhead – visibly lay claim on his skin, sometimes more than would be deemed appropriate for two grown ass adults, but whatever. Ian never complains about it. And maybe it’s about a little bit more than Mickey feeling guilty, too. Maybe he likes marking Ian like that. Fuck knows he gets off on it the other way around – loves hickeys on his throat and the shadow of fingerprints on his hips and wrists. 

He’s sucking another deep bruise into Ian’s skin – right at his collarbone this time – when the redhead exhales sharply and throws his head back, bucking hard against him, his dick pressing up against the curve of his ass as his fingers bite painfully into his flesh. “Fuck, _Mick_ ,” he gasps, clearly past his limit. 

Ian’s an expert, by now, at knowing how far he can push Mickey before the older man can’t take it anymore and needs something else, something more – teasing Mickey is one of Ian’s favorite pastimes, and he has a lot of practice – but Mickey doesn’t usually do this, prefers being on the receiving end of most things during sex, so sometimes, when they do get into it like this, Mickey pushes just a little too hard. 

“I gotchya.” Mickey promises, immediately pulling away from Ian’s neck and shifting his body so he can get one hand underneath the elastic band of Ian’s shorts. He palms the younger man’s cock firmly, not teasing at all. “I gotchya.” 

He wraps his hand around Ian’s dick, moving it up and down slowly, but not lightly. Ian relaxes at the pressure, shuddering his relief and blinking up at Mickey with a slow, hazy grin. “Mmm,” he hums, getting both his hands on Mickey’s thighs and rubbing them up and down languidly. “Feels good.” 

“Yeah?” Mickey asks, stroking a little faster. “You like that?” 

Ian quirks an eyebrow, a little confused, though still a lot fucked out and happy. Mickey’s operating well outside his comfort zone right now, and Ian’s starting to catch on. 

“Love it when you touch me, Mickey,” he answers all the same, voice lust-rough and honest, despite his confusion over the role reversal. “Love you.” 

Mickey’s breath catches in his throat. This fucking sappy shit is going to be the death of him someday, he’s sure. He pushes past the sickeningly sweet feelings of love and contentment that he can’t control, and reminds himself that he’s doing all of this for a reason – a more pressing one than their usual ‘sex feels good let’s always be doing it’. 

The brunette nods a few times, takes a deep breath, and then blurts, “I wanna do something.” 

Ian’s expression is gently inquisitive, but his grip on Mickey’s thighs – suddenly almost painfully tight – belays a spike in his nerves. “Yeah?” He asks, managing to keep his tone light. “Like what?” 

Mickey keeps stroking his cock, thumbing at the slit every few passes just to hear Ian’s breath hitch. “Bought a toy.” He tries to say it confidently, but he’s nervous as fuck and he knows the younger man can tell. 

The redhead smiles warmly, whatever apprehension he’d felt a moment ago is gone now, and his hands start moving again, soothing and firm against Mickey’s legs. “You went to a sex store without me?” He’s pouting, but it’s all for show. Mickey can see the glint in his eyes, the way the thought of that obviously turns him on. 

“I went on the internet without you.” Mickey corrects, rolling his eyes. 

Ian’s eyes widen slightly. “You serious?” 

Mickey squeezes his dick just a little too hard, grinning when Ian gasps. “Yeah, fuckwad, I’m serious.” 

“What’d you buy?” He demands and Mickey can already feel the atmosphere between them changing. Ian’s getting that look in his eyes that he always does when he wants to play, and his body shifts right along with it. Mickey can tell he’s barely hanging on, that letting Mickey stay on top of him and set the pace is suddenly a struggle. Mickey does his best not to smirk knowingly. 

Ian’s good about giving up control when he knows Mickey wants it, but it’s beyond obvious now that the brunette doesn’t anymore. That all of this – the teasing, the slow kissing, the drawn out handjob that’s still going on – has just been a tactic to get Ian worked up and in an accepting, playful, _horny_ mood. Mickey’s not a mastermind in manipulation or anything, but he does know Ian pretty damn well. 

Mickey licks his lips and glances, briefly and tellingly, at the nightstand on his side of the bed. Ian catches the motion immediately, and takes his hands away from Mickey’s legs, making the older man feel suddenly cold. 

But Ian’s eyes are dark and wanting when Mickey meets them again. “Show me.” He says, voice deep and commanding. 

Mickey swallows thickly, but nods, and after another second or two, he gets off of Ian and moves just enough to hook his finger around the drawer handle. He’s already removed the new toy from its packaging and cleaned it, because he’d been hoping that as soon as he’d worked up the nerve to show his boyfriend, he wouldn’t have to wait. 

Ian eyes the string of anal beads thoughtfully as soon as he sees them. His mouth opens in a slight pant when Mickey returns to where he’d been, straddling Ian’s waist, and lays the clear, silicon toy on his chest. 

“Have you tried them yet?” Ian asks, reaching out with one hand to finger the beads, eyes darting between them and Mickey. 

The older man bites his lip and shakes his head. “Had something like it when I was younger.” He shares, glancing away because for some reason, this part feels embarrassing. “Used to…” he trails off, clearing his throat. “But not with these.” 

Ian nods, and his free hand goes back to Mickey’s thigh, closer to his dick this time, teasing. “Want me to use them on you?” 

Mickey’s breath hitches. “Yeah.” He feels vulnerable now – has this whole time, honestly, but now there’s no going back. He and Ian have played with toys before, have a pretty impressive collection, honestly – vibrators, cuffs, butt plugs, a prostrate massager – but this is the first time that Mickey’s ever bought something on his own. The first time he’s ever asked for something like this so brazenly, and he’s a little scared. A lot terrified, if he’s being honest, because what if Ian’s not into it? What if he’s mad that Mickey hadn’t asked him first? What if –

“Hey, Mick,” Ian interrupts his spiraling thoughts, almost like he can see them, and the older man immediately snaps out of it and shifts his focus back to Ian, who’s still laying calmly underneath him, his expression easy and reassuring. “This is sexy as fuck,” he says simply, dropping the toy back onto his chest so he can use both hands to rub up and down Mickey’s legs again with a firm pressure that makes Mickey relax. “You buying these, wanting this. Fuck,” he groans, thrusting his hips slightly. “You’re so fucking hot.” 

Mickey flushes and looks away. “Gonna get on me then?” He asks gruffly. 

Ian moves his hands from Mickey’s thighs to his hips, where he squeezes fingerprints into his skin, thumbs pressing tightly into the protruding bones there, until Mickey hisses and looks down again. 

“Don’t have to be shy,” Ian mutters, rubbing soothing circles as soon as he has Mickey’s focus again. “fucking love you, Mick. Do anything for you. Gonna take such good care of you.” 

Mickey nods without meaning to, because he knows that, knows Ian. “Please.” He hears himself saying. He doesn’t mean to beg, not so soon, but Ian’s eyes go dark when he hears the hitch in his voice. “I wanna…I want…” 

“I know,” Ian cuts him off gently. He takes the beads in one hand and nudges Mickey with the other. “Shift over for me.” 

The older man does, his body instinctively going slack as Ian positions him to lay on his back, moving with the redhead as he works to get them both naked and then shoves a few pillows under Mickey so his hips are canted up enough for Ian to get at him. Once the younger man is between his legs – spread almost obscenely wide, one foot planted firmly on the mattress, knee bent outwards – he leans down and kisses Mickey’s stomach, stopping to suck a deep bruise right at his hipbone, making the older man shudder and arch upwards. 

“Good boy,” Ian praises him, once he has Mickey exactly where he wants him. 

Mickey’s breath catches at the words, and he reaches out to touch Ian. His hands are shaking a little, but Ian doesn’t seem to mind, just sighs happily as Mickey touches his arms, trails his fingers from his biceps up to his shoulders and back again. 

When he’d first imagined this, using this particular toy with Ian, he’d pictured himself on all fours, ass in the air with Ian behind him – and probably, if Mickey likes this as much as he’s sure he will, as much as he remembers, they’ll do it like that eventually – but for this, their first time trying them out, Ian has decided that he wants to be face-to-face. Mickey can’t deny that it’s better this way, that he feels calmer, safer, being able to see the redhead’s every expression. It’s hot as fuck, too, the way Ian already looks sort of wrecked over it. 

Ian pauses for a moment, just looking at Mickey. It seems like he’s considering something, maybe the best way to start, but the brunette isn’t in any mood to be patient. He shifts his hips again, and makes this noise that he’ll deny later – a needy whine, close to a whimper – that seems to bring Ian out of his momentary trance. 

“Sorry,” the redhead whispers, trailing his fingers across Mickey’s stomach, leaving goosebumps in his wake. “Just thinking about tying your arms up, putting them over your head so you can’t touch.” Mickey moans. “Yeah, I know you like that.” Ian bends forward, kisses his collarbone, licks a long stripe all the way up to his chin. “Maybe next time, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Mickey breathes. 

“I want you to touch me, this time,” Ian tells him. And part of it is building the arousal, because they both get off on Ian being a bossy little shit, but the other part of it is reassurance – Mickey needs to be told what he’s allowed to do, sometimes. When he drops down into that space where nothing exists except him and Ian, when everything else floats away like smoke in the air, Mickey doesn’t like to think; when he’s like that, knowing what Ian wants him to do, that’s what he needs. That’s why he likes the cuffs so much, why he likes being on his knees. But words work, too. Sometimes, when it’s just words, the feeling gets stronger, and Mickey floats even higher. “You can keep your hands above your head the way you like, or touch me if you want, but you can’t touch your cock, okay? Anything else, but you’re not allowed to get yourself off.” 

Mickey’s dick twitches noticeably. He really, _really_ likes it when Ian tells him what he’s allowed to do. 

“Okay,” he nods quickly, already floating. “Yeah. Yeah.” 

“Good boy,” Ian says again, “tell me you’re gonna be good for me.” 

Mickey flushes, but doesn’t look away. He licks his lips. “I’ll be good for you.” 

Ian grins widely, _proudly_. “Yeah, I know you will. You’re such a good boy.” He says again, leaning down and kissing Mickey even as the older man shivers. His reaction to praise hasn’t diminished over the years; if anything, this part of himself has grown and flourished in the time he and Ian have been together. 

Mickey opts to keep his hands over his head while Ian grabs the lube and starts working one, and then two, fingers into him. The redhead scissors them slightly, getting him ready, and Mickey sighs contentedly at the sensation. Ian’s movements are precise and efficient, and though he rubs at Mickey’s prostrate several times, he doesn’t linger there, doesn’t tease the way he usually does, and that just gets Mickey’s heart pounding even faster. 

Fuck, this is going to be good. 

There are seven beads on the string, and each one is bigger than the next, the last one noticeably wider than the girth of Ian’s dick. That had been part of the appeal, to be honest. As perfect as the redhead’s cock is, sometimes Mickey craves something even more. 

Mickey sighs lightly when Ian pulls his fingers away, watching with rapt attention as he uses more lube to coat the toy. Right before he pushes the first bead in, the redhead leans down and kisses him soundly. “What do you say if you want me to stop?” 

Mickey rolls his eyes. “I ain’t gonna want you to stop, firecrotch.” 

Ian gives him a stern look. “Mickey.” He warns. And the brunette’s stomach lurches as his dick twitches. Ian’s a natural at this, always has been; he thrives on having control just as much as Mickey thrives on giving it up. 

“Red.” He answers obediently. 

“Good.” Ian smiles at him, eyes shining. “Here we go.” 

The first ball presses in easily, and Mickey gasps not because it’s a noticeable stretch, but because the sensation is so different from anything he’s used to. He remembers the toy he had when he was a teenager, and how hard he used to be able to make himself come when he used it. He and Ian are only a few minutes into this, but Mickey can already tell that this is going to be better; _so much_ better. 

The second bead slips in just as easily as the first, and Mickey rocks his hips into it. He closes his eyes and throws his head back, taking one hand away from the headboard and wrapping it around Ian’s bicep instead. His fingers dig hard into the other man’s flesh – probably painfully so, but Ian doesn’t tell him to stop so Mickey doesn’t – when the redhead gently eases the third bead into him. 

He gasps loudly and arches up wantonly when Ian teases him with that one; pulling it out and then pushing it back in several times. His other hand is on Mickey’s chest, mostly just resting there, right above his heart, but occasionally he’ll apply a firmer pressure – hold Mickey steady, and then tweak one of his nipples lightly. And Mickey’s lost in it. Completely at the mercy of Ian and this toy. 

Soon, the older man has a fine sheen of sweat across his skin, and he can feel the flush all over his body. He’s panting from it, from the feeling of the beads inside of him and from knowing that Ian’s the one doing this to him. It’s so fucking different than playing with them alone the way he used to. 

He curses himself for not having bought this toy sooner. For not having shared this want with Ian. 

“Doing so good for me, baby,” Ian sounds reverent, and Mickey has to open his eyes, has to see the other man’s face in this moment. 

Ian’s looking at him like he’s the only thing in the world, and being the center of his focus like that makes Mickey’s breath hitch almost painfully. “Tell me,” he gasps. He doesn’t think he’s ever asked before, not like that, but the redhead’s gaze goes soft when he hears it. 

He shuffles down slightly so he can get his mouth on the inside of Mickey’s thigh, where he’s most sensitive, and mouth at the delicate skin there. “Good boy,” he says, breath hot against Mickey’s skin. “Such a good boy for me.” 

Mickey whines, the sound getting caught somewhere in the back of his throat and coming out choked with need and gratefulness. Ian smiles up at him, wide and proud. “So fucking good, baby. You ready for the next one?” Mickey’s nodding before Ian’s even done asking. 

The fourth bead creates a pressure that hadn’t been there before – Mickey can feel all of them inside of him every time he shifts – and he presses his hips down just to test it out, to feel how full he is. He doesn’t realize he’s panting until Ian rests his thumb on his bottom lip, tracing it gently back and forth, smirking when Mickey’s tongue darts out to reach it. 

“God, you’re so fucking hot like this,” Ian says, sounding awed, “Taking it so good for me. Doing _so_ good.” 

Mickey keens, the sound escaping without warning. He threads his fingers into Ian’s hair and tugs at him needily. “More. Please. Want more.” 

Ian sucks hard at his inner thigh as he pushes the fifth bead in, creating dual sensations that have Mickey gasping and arching. He’s so gone, so fucking gone that he can’t control himself. He doesn’t want to, either. Giving himself to Ian like this is addicting, like the best kind of drug, and love, and freedom. 

By the time Ian starts working the last bead, the biggest one, into him, Mickey has tears in his eyes. Not because he’s in pain – far from it – but because it’s so much. His thighs ache from holding himself open for Ian, from the redhead’s mouth on his skin. 

“You okay?” Ian moves up his body, hovers over him so close that they’re sharing air. He uses his free hand to swipe under Mickey’s eye. 

The brunette nods immediately, over and over again, because the very last thing he wants in the world right now is for Ian to stop. “Keep going. Please, Ian, please, just…I need…so full. So fucking full. _Please_.” 

“That’s all of them.” Ian says, bending slightly and kissing him. Mickey tries to return the kiss, but he’s having a hard time breathing, or focusing, and doesn’t manage much more than a sloppy pant. “You’ve got them all inside. How does it feel?” 

Mickey shifts his hips a little, barely anything at all, but he’s so full, so incredibly, impossibly full that he cries out, tries to cant away from the pressure and then back into it. “I can’t…I need…” He doesn’t know what he’s trying to say. His body is craving something – his dick is hard, pulsing and wet. He knows he’s not allowed to touch, and he thought that would be a harder command to follow, but he doesn’t even want to. He feels like if he touched himself right now, he might actually die. “Please.” He doesn’t know what he needs, but Ian almost always does, and he’s begging him now to figure it out, because Mickey’s not sure how much longer he’s going to be able to take this.

“Shh, shh,” the younger man soothes, pushing Mickey’s sweaty hair off his forehead, kissing the skin there before moving his mouth lower, down the side of his face, the bridge of his nose, the curve of his jaw, his chin. He kisses everywhere, and places one hand firmly at the column of his throat. He doesn’t use a lot of force, not enough to cut off air, but it’s enough that Mickey feels it – a counterbalance to the pressure in his ass. “I’m gonna start taking them out now, okay?” 

Mickey whines, high and desperate in the back of his throat. “I can’t…” 

“I know.” Ian soothes. “You’re doing so good for me, Mick. You can come whenever you’re ready, okay? Don’t try to stop it.” 

Mickey probably would have rolled his eyes if his brain were functioning on any sort of higher level at the moment. As if he _could_ stop it, even if he wanted to. But all he manages is an eager nod and a shaky, “Okay.” 

Ian tugs on the loop at the end of the string gently, pulling the last bead out slowly, so slowly, and Mickey arches up, his body trying to chase the toy. Ian chuckles fondly and uses his hand to press down on his hipbone, helping him focus and control himself. When it pops out of him, Mickey feels his cock pulse, and he knows for sure then that he could come untouched. Maybe not today, maybe not right now, but he knows that eventually he’ll be able to do it with this toy. Knowing that makes him drift even higher into that space where Ian is the only thing tethering him to the universe. 

The redhead pulls the next bead out just as slowly, and Mickey turns his head into the pillow, gasping. He puts both of his hands back up over his head and stretches as much as he can. “Touch me.” He pleads, shutting his eyes tight. “I need…I want you…” 

Ian must have been waiting for it, for him to ask, because as soon as Mickey gets the words out the redhead’s hand is there, right there, around his dick. His grip is firm and slow, stroking Mickey at the same pace he’s set for removing the beads. 

Mickey’s a mess at this point – writhing and begging in equal measures. He’s so close, so fucking close. He knows he’s not going to make it to the last bead. Knows this is going to be over in a matter of minutes – fuck, _seconds_ – and he tries to warn Ian, he really does. He opens his mouth to get the words out, but all he manages is a breathy gasp and a stilted, “I’m –” before it happens. 

Ian’s thumb presses into the very tip of his dick at the same moment he pulls the next bead out and Mickey fucking _loses_ it. He comes hard with a bitten off shout, stars exploding behind his eyes as the world narrows down to nothing at all except this, this glorious moment of total rapture. 

And maybe he even blacks out a little bit, because he doesn’t feel Ian remove the last of the beads; isn’t aware of anything at all, in fact until he feels the redhead’s knuckles against his stomach, stroking back and forth so fast. He forces himself to crack an eye open, drag his mind back into something resembling focus, just so he can see what Ian’s doing. And he’s so glad he does, because the sight of the younger man quickly, desperately, jerking himself off right above him, and then coming in hard spurts all over the brunette’s stomach – mixing their come together in some weird, possessive combination of _this_ , _mine_ , and _us_ – is almost enough to make Mickey get hard again right then and there. Well, not really. He’s more sated than he can remember being in a damn long time, but still. He’ll be jacking off to the memory of _that_ later, he’s sure.

“Fuck.” He breathes, as he watches Ian struggle to catch his breath. 

“Yeah,” Ian agrees, collapsing slightly next to him, tracing his fingers through the mess on Mickey’s belly. It takes him a moment to start talking again, and Mickey’s absently proud of that – that he’s reduced the younger man to silence. “You did so good, baby,” Ian says eventually, because this part is as important as the rest of it, and they both need it. “Such a good boy for me.” 

Mickey moves his arms down, finally, and lets them rest one at his side, the other on Ian’s chest. He closes his eyes and just basks in it – Ian’s praise and awe. It feels so good, and he continues to float there, in that moment, for a long time. He’s vaguely aware of Ian shifting away eventually, getting something out of the bathroom and cleaning them up, putting the toy away, settling down next to him again – but it’s mostly all a blur. 

“I love you.” He manages to say later, so close to sleep that he might be dreaming already. “This.” 

The last thing he hears, before he drifts off for real, is Ian’s comfortingly familiar, “Us.”

==================================================

Once upon a time Ian had thought that his life – and especially a life with Mickey Milkovich – could never be anything remotely resembling calm or permanent. A nice fantasy, he had believed, but nothing more. The reality of where they’ve wound up is truly staggering, when he remembers that.

This is the ending he never thought he’d have. 

 

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> This story will span through, and past, the current canon timeline, because all I want is for these boys to get the happy ending they deserve. Would love to hear what you think so far!!


End file.
